What Has Been Wrought
by Dabbles R Us
Summary: The Blight ravages the land & the people of Ferelden are embroiled in a civil war. Death and destruction are found around every corner. Two mages from Kinloch Hold and an elf from the Denerim Alienage unite to stop the Blight alongside the fabled Grey Wardens, Alistair and Daveth. These unlikely heroes have more battles to win than just the war against the Darkspawn though. A/U****
1. Chapter 1

A/n- I'm reposting this from Archive of Our Own. It's part of series, The Forgotten Bards Tales, but can be read as a stand alone. It was requested that I cross post, so here it is. FF doesn't let me put the actual character list, because it has a four character limit. *sighs*

Main Cast:

Melina Amell

Maroth Tabris

Jalyn Surana

Jowan

Cullen

Daveth

Alistair

Zevran

Morrigan

Wynne

OC

Leliana

There are M/M pairings in this. If that bothers you, you're at the wrong place.

***IMPORTANT THINGS TO NOTE***

If this is the first thing you're reading in this series, here is a brief rundown of the important AU lore points that have been changed/developed:

1\. City elves and human commoners (the poorest of the poor, that is) speak with the same accent as Sera, to explain why she has the accent in the first place. Most people's accent isn't quite as thick as Sera's though, which I just figure is because Sera's a bit of a right nutter, yeah? haha  
2\. Tabris and Nesiara are married seven years prior to the Blight. they have a daughter. Nelaros is married to Shianni. (both the above can be found in Thief Sleeps in my Bed and A Smuggler's Chant)  
3\. The Sabrae clan (Merrill and Mahariel's clan) have moved to the Wending Wood to escape the Blight after Mahariel has a vision from Asha'bellanar  
4\. Spirit Healers must be empaths. Non-empaths who wish to heal can only do basic healing spells.  
5\. Surana and Jowan were in a relationship until she is made tranquil in an effort to protect her best friend, Amell. Amell and Cullen were in a brief, almost-a-relationship but was broken off by Cullen because he felt he couldn't properly protect her. (both the above can be found in "Collision")

Cover art by MilkyTwilight on Deviantart. FF is dumb and made me heavily edit the image to get it to show at all. Please give the full image a look here: art/Dragon-Age-Commission-609315406

* * *

 _Nesiara lies on the ground, neck twisted at an sickening angle. Her wedding finger's been chopped off, a bloody stump where once her wedding band rested. Blood pools around her and coats her worn dress, mingling with her blonde hair. Nesiara's body is heavy in Maroth's arms, still warm against his skin. A ragged scream rips itself from his lips, echoing in the empty hall._

Maroth sits bolt upright, the cold ground hard beneath him. An owl hoots in the distance as his heart pounds with rage and grief, hands shaking in the half-hidden moonlight. It's been four months since Nesiara's death, but the pain of losing her, and of giving up his daughter, still tears at his dreams nightly.

Aneirin quietly stares at him from his watch post, sitting on the forest floor with his back against a dying tree. "Bad dream?" he questions, tone soft.

Maroth shrugs, scowling as sweat trickles down his back. "S'fine," he replies, tone short.

"I didn't ask how you were," he retorts. "I can see the answer to _that_ plain on your face, Tabris."

Maroth scoffs, running his fingers through his long, dirty blonde hair, the slight wavy curls catching on his rough skin. He looks over at Aneirin through a curtain of his hair, green eyes shining. "Ya think ya can read me so well, right? What'sit I'm thinkin' now?" he taunts, lips twitching into a smirk.

Aneirin raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Something salacious, no doubt." His tone is dry as he meets Maroth's eyes, his tattoos barely visible in the soft light of night.

Maroth grins, crawling over toward him on his hands and knees. "Maybe ya know me alright, after all, if that means w'at I think it does," he says, pressing a soft kiss against Aneirin's lips. "You an' me, how 'bout we satisfy my wicked thoughts instead of all this talkin'?" He grips the mage's orange-red hair in his calloused hands, the texture coarse against his skin.

Aneirin wraps an arm around his neck. "As you wish, my friend," he replies.

Maroth moans as he captures Aneirin's lips in a kiss, breath mingling together as they lay on the forest floor. He can feel himself hardening against his breeches as he pulls him closer. He loses himself in the feel of the mage's hands on his skin, pushing away the cobwebs of memories clinging to his brain. He drinks in the warm embrace of his lover, a formidable wall against the wave of emotions that threaten to engulf him. Aneirin grabs a tangle of his long hair, tugging slight, and Maroth's breath hitches in his throat. He can feel a tingle of Aneirin's magic light across his skin in an electrifying dance.

"More," Maroth whispers, tilting his head back. "More."

* * *

Melina stares out over the crowd of her fellow mages, her plump face flushed as she searches for a place to sit, shifting from foot to foot like a nervous pigeon. She carefully checks her barrier, making sure a firm wall is still between her and her fellow mages, keeping their emotions separate so they don't overwhelm her.

An arm shoots out above the crowd, waving her over; and a small, relieved smile spreads across her face as she recognizes Finn. She shuffles over to where he's sitting with Petra, Niall, and Evelina. She curtsies before sitting down, blush deepening as she notices Evelina rolling her eyes.

"Always so formal, Amell. We're about to head off to battle together- lighten up," she says, her brown hair tied back in a loose ponytail. She grabs a hardened biscuit from the center of the table with a bored expression on her face, fingers plucking the bread deftly from the basket before Niall can grab it. He frowns at her, and Melina can feel a trickle of his displeasure at having missed the last roll.

Melina nods quickly. "Yes, Enchanter Evelina," she replies, voice soft.

Finn kicks her gently under the table. "She's just teasing, Melina. I doubt they'll take _you_ into battle," he assures her, flicking an imaginary speck of dirt off his robes.

Petra clears her throat, exchanging an amused glance with Niall. "You didn't know, Finn? They're short on Spirit Healers so Amell's taking her Harrowing tonight so she can join them."

Finn's mouth falls open, his eyes wide. She can feel a tingle of his shock reach her, and frowns as she tries to keep her barrier erect. "You mean, she has to go _outside_?" he replies, voice riddled with disgust.

Melina bites her lip, golden eyes cast down toward the table as she picks meekly at her food. She knows she's not very useful as a mage. Or at least, not with battle magic.

She looks up, meeting Finn's eyes. "It's because Anders ran away again. So, I have to do my best, and follow the templar's orders, so I can come home again quickly."

She glances to her left, where a wall of templars stand. Their shining silver armour brings her comfort, because she knows they will always be there to protect her from the dangers of her magic, should she succumb to the demons. Her eyes look for Cullen, even though her mind still whispers that it's foolish to love him. But he isn't there this time, and her heart falls a little as a sigh escapes her lips.

Niall takes a bite of food, shrugging his shoulders. "I hear that one kid, what's his name? Jaween, Jolan..." He meets Melina's eyes head on as he speaks, watching her.

Petra scoffs. "Jowan?" she supplies, and Melina's blood runs cold at the name.

Niall nods in response. "Yeah, that's the one. Surana's lover, the one she did blood magic for? He's going, too, or so I hear."

Melina clenches her fists into tight balls under the table as tremors of anger run through her. She struggles to keep a tight grip on her emotions, her magic stirring in her veins as her body shakes.

She's probably the only person in all of Kinloch Hold that knows the truth, that it's Jowan who is the maleficar, not Jalyn. No, Jalyn's only guilty of falling in love when she isn't allowed to. It's too dangerous for mages to harbour such strong emotions, they had both known that; it calls the demons even nearer. But Jalyn had paid a price too steep.

But she doesn't say a word, keeping Jalyn's secret safe in her heart even now. Not out of loyalty for Jowan, or even Jalyn, but because no one will believe her, and because it won't bring her friend back, no matter how hard she prays. She hangs her head, thick curls falling in front of her face and hiding the single, cold tear streaking down her rounded cheek.

The voices of the other mages hum around her, but she ignores it, mind caught in a haze of grief.

* * *

Birds trill throughout the Brecilian Forest as Maroth and Aneirin walk alone, the grass crunching beneath their boots. Maroth's thoughts drift to his daughter and deceased wife, despite his fingers still being entwined with his lover's. His heart skips a beat every time their faces come to mind, and he struggles not to let it overwhelm him.

He's glad for Aneirin's company, to help keep the weight of his grief from crushing him- at least until he's able to reunite with his little Lialah. And living free of the oppressive pressure of the human nobility in their lofty blasted castles is nice- better than he had even imagined. He could go his whole life and never meet another human and it would still be too soon.

But, even if it meant he never would've met Aneirin, he'd give this all up in a heartbeat to bring his family back. To hold Nessy in his arms, the weight of her body soft against his. Or hear his daughter's innocent, bubbling laughter. His sweet little Lialah.

Aneirin glances at him over his shoulder, a soft, rare smile forming on his face. "Your thoughts look heavy, care to share them?" he inquires.

Maroth shakes his head. "Not on a 'uch a sunny day," he replies.

He follows Aneirin's eyes upward, dark grey storm clouds swirling across a dismal sky. "Right. Of course," Aneirin says, tone dry. "Wouldn't want to ruin such a picturesque view."

Maroth's laughter echos against the trees, his heart feeling lighter than it had a moment ago. A few drops of rain splash against his skin, causing him to shiver despite the warmth of his cloak. "Race ya to the caves?" he challenges with a grin.

* * *

Melina lets her shoulders droop as she watches Jalyn work enchantments, the tranquil mage's bony hands moving deftly with foreign movements. "Hello, Jalyn!" she calls out, forcing herself to smile wide and wave. She ignores the chilly emptiness that flows from her friend like a blanket of ice that smothers her with the bitterness of cold. It steals her breath, heart slowing as she stands there, alone.

Jalyn doesn't look up, eyes barely blinking as she continues her work. She focuses on it with a steady, blank stare. The elf feels hollow to her and Melina wants to cry, body trembling.

But Jalyn says her crying disturbs the enchantments. The last time she'd cried, the templars had to escort her away. They say her empathic powers are harmful to the tranquil's work because they're the opposite- where Melina feels everyone's emotions, Jalyn can't even feel her own. She takes a deep breath and watches as her best friend works, praying to the Maker that Rite hadn't hurt. Images of them together, practicing magic, floats through her mind. Her heartbeat quickens and she wishes she could turn back time and do everything over again. If she had paid more attention, something, anything- maybe she could have saved Jalyn from this fate.

Melina clenches her fists. It should be Jowan here, working enchantments by candlelight. It should be that blood mage who has lost his feelings. "I miss you, Jalyn," Melina whispers, turning away. Her breath shudders out as she wipes away a tear.

* * *

A warm breeze blows through Maroth's hair, and the tips of his pointed ears twitch. The weather is calm, compared to the earlier storm that had kept them trapped for the evening in a tiny cave. He grins at the memory of their rain-soaked bodies entwining on the rough stone floor, lightning flashing and occasionally lighting up Aneirin's lust-filled expression. The booming echo of thunder had almost seemed to beat in rhythm to his thrusts.

The small open field Maroth stands in is empty, and a frown pulls his lips into a pout. He glances around, wondering where Aneirin might be. They've split up, both searching in different directions for food, but they were to meet back when the sun was just to the treeline, and now it's nearly gone from view. He folds his arms across his chest as he leans against a tree, paranoia making his heart race. As Maroth waits, the seconds slipping by, his mind drifts. He remembers the eve he had met the apostate mage, and how desperate he had been for company after Aneirin had saved his life.

Aneirin had resisted his company, at first, preferring to travel alone. But Maroth had persisted, mostly for his own selfish reasons. With a mage at his side, he can still hold onto the hope of seeing his little Lialah again.

The soft sound of crunching leaves startles him and he spins around, spear held at the ready. His body relaxes as Aneirin wanders from behind the bushes, hands held in the air.

"You're not going to stab me with your spear, are you, Tabris?" he asks, one brow raised and small grin in place.

Maroth rolls his eyes, lowering his blade. "I just might, though not the way yer imagin' it," he quips, and Aneirin blushes at the lewd suggestion.

Maroth chuckles at his lover's red cheeks, a flirtatious smirk tilting the edges of his lips upward. "Or do I 'ave you pegged wrong, pet?" he says, wiggling his eyebrows at the man.

Aneirin shakes his head, his reddish brown hair flying in his face. "You are incorrigible, my friend."

He nods in agreement, dark green eyes gleeful. "You speak the right of it, I think. But it makes yer life more uh, stimulatin', yeah?" Maroth's eyes dart to the pack hung over Aneirin's shoulder. "Ya found some food, right? Let's go on an adventure after we eat. I'm bored," he continues.

It's a lie, of course, and an obvious one at that. He isn't bored, exactly, he just wants to keep moving so he doesn't have time to stop and remember anything. Less time to think and feel if he's constantly travelling.

Aneirin grabs his hand, squeezing it softly. "I know it's only been a few months but..." he begins, voice hesitant.

Maroth cuts him off, face forming a scowl. "Stop," he says, body tense.

He can still hear Nessy, voice soft and feathery, as she says her evening prayer before their meal each night. Or the way she would sing their little girl to sleep at night, such a gentle voice. _La la lu, La la lu. Oh, my little sweet dreamer, I'll banish the demons for you._ His heartbeat speeds up, thundering painfully against his chest. His little girl, his baby...

At least he's managed to save her, and that Dalish woman, what was her name again? Merrill. Merrill has promised she'd be safe, after the mage girl had found them wandering alone in the forest, trying to escape Vaughn's men. He can feel Lialah's tiny, plump hand holding fast to his fingers as Merrill tugged her away, tears and snot rollin g down her cherub face.

Aneirin frowns but nods, pulling Maroth closer and caressing his cheek. "Alright, let's go on an adventure, then," he says with a sigh. "So long as I'm not almost eaten by a bear- again," he adds as an afterthought, causing Maroth to chuckle.

"I make no promises," he quips, kissing the man on his chin. "Now, tell me you found somethin' other than berries to eat today."

As Aneirin shakes his head 'no', Maroth groans. He's almost certain he's eaten so many of the sour berries recently, the Maker was about to turn him into one. Blasted wretched shite.

What he wouldn't give for some of Nesiara's spicy vegetable stew. His mouth waters at the thought as he eats a berry, wincing as the sour flavour bursts across his tongue. "Andraste's ass, I hate these blasted things," he mutters.

Aneirin stills, finger held hovering at his lips. He furrows his brow before widening his eyes. "Watch out, Tabris," he shouts.

A fire spell flies above Maroth's head as he spins around. He looks up at a twisted creature of rotting flesh stares down at him, clawing at the flames licking at its skin. Maroth scrambles back, reaching for his spear. "W'at in the shite is that?" He tries to keep his voice steady as he plungers the tip of his spear into the poor beast's chest, twisting until it fades away into the ground.

"Maker be praised," Aneirin mutters behind him.

Maroth turns, wiping the sweat from his brow. "W'at in the _shite_ was that?" he asks again.

Aneirin frowns, pulling his lower lip in through his teeth. "A demon of some sort, though I'm not sure what classification. Not very powerful, though, or we'd be dead."

"W'at a cheery thought," Maroth mutters back.

* * *

Melina smooths down her robes as she sits on her bed, hands shaking as she waits for Wynne to come for her. This is it, the night of her Harrowing. Butterflies flutter madly in her stomach as she fidgets with her patchwork robes.

A soft tapping lets her know someone has entered the room, and she can feel with her sense that it's Jowan- his guilt is a dark spot on her mind.

"Me-Melina?" he whispers, and his stuttering reminds her of Cullen.

Her brow furrows as she turns her head to look at the man who has taken Jalyn from her."Why are you here, blood mage?" she hisses, too low for the few remaining mages in the room to hear.

Jowan looks nervous anyway, beady eyes casting around as if he's checking for templars. "I'm just- I'm nervous too, you know. What if we fail?" he whines, wringing his hands.

Melina bites her lip. "You should be nervous. Demons always prey on blood mages," she replies.

The tapping of slippered feet causes her to glance toward the door. A sudden smile lights across her face when Wynne walks in the room, her grey hair twisted atop her head, not a strand out of place. Wynne smiles kindly at her, and a warmth spreads all the way through Melina at the sight. Wynne's like a mother to the mageling, a quiet guiding force that always gives her wise words to muse over.

"Senior Enchanter," Melina says, standing and curtsying. She knows it makes people nervous, but she can't help it. It's the one, albeit faded, memory she has of her mother, and Melina mimics it so she won't forget.

Wynne guides her down the hallway and away from Jowan's sad eyes. Before they begin to climb the stairs, Wynne pauses. Melina bumps into her back, not paying attention.

"Ompfh!" she mumbles, blinking rapidly. "Senior Enchanter? Is something the matter?"

Wynne shakes her head. "No child, we are waiting for our guard to escort us the rest of the way." Her face is calm and serene as she waits, hands folded neatly in front of her.

Melina fidgets, tugging on her curls. It isn't long before she hears the familiar clanking of templar armour. Her face lights up as she sees Cullen rounding the corner. A sense of relief floods her: she knows she'll be safe if Cullen's the one watching over her.

He stops in front of them, nodding politely. "S-senior Enchanter; Miss Melina," he says, and she smiles to hear his stutter has improved in the year since they had ended their ill-conceived affair.

"Ser Cullen, thank you for watching over me as I am about to undertake my Harrowing," Melina replies, trying not to wish that he would call her Mellie, even just once more.

Cullen frowns. "Y-Yes, of course, Miss," he replies, and she lets down her barrier to see if she can sense his emotions. Templar emotions are always the most elusive to her, but Cullen's she can usually feel, if she tries hard enough. His barriers are particularly strong tonight, but she feels him let it slip enough for her to feel his worry over her safety. She smiles softly at his retreating back as they follow him up the stairs to where the others wait for them. Silently, she thanks the Maker he still cares even while knowing their love is a sin in His eyes.

* * *

Three shems stand before them, shaking in their blood-stained boots. The tip of Maroth's spear presses against one's throat, and a small droplet of blood runs down the blade as the man whimpers.

"P-p-please, don't kill us! We didn't even know you Dalish were here!"

Maroth scoffs, stomach churning as he watches the sweat drip down their pale faces. "Foolish 'ittle shite. I ain't Dalish, ya see their markings on my face, twit? Spendin' all this time in this blasted forest, and I'd forgotten the lot of you shems are dead from the neck up," he sneers, voice dripping venom with every word.

The shem whimpers again, this time louder. "I-I'm sorry! Just don't kill us, please!"

Aneirin glances at Maroth. "I do have markings, though they are hardly Dalish in origin. Their confusion is understandable," he says, but his eyes are focused on Maroth and not the humans.

Maroth scoffs, pressing the tip of his spear a little deeper, and a few more droplets of blood flow down until they touch his hands, staining his skin red. He grins at the sight, enjoying the feel of their fear.

Aneirin frowns but continues. "And we have no intention of killing any of you," he says to the shems, tone firm.

Maroth's lip curls. "Why? Shem lives mean nothin'," is his cold reply. His fury over his wife's death has not been quieted in the months he's spent away from the Alienage. No, if anything, his lust for blood has only grown stronger each time he thinks of his family.

The human standing at the point of his spear starts to cry, and thick gobs of snot leak out his nose. "Friggin' disgustin'," Maroth mutters.

Aneirin sighs, lowering his staff. "If we kill them, chances are they'll blame the Dalish and attack them. Zathrian's clan is still nearby," he whispers low, finally giving Maroth pause.

He sighs, lowering his spear but still keeping it ready to attack. "Right, you win this time, Aneirin." He stops, a thought suddenly occurring to him. "Tell me, w'at were you shem doin' out in this forest, anyway? W'at were ya runnin' from? A bear? Wolves? I see nothin' chasin' ya," he comments, squinting behind them.

This time it's the blonde human who speaks, the first one being too busy babbling and wringing his hands together in fear to speak coherently. "We found a cave and there was this great big demon in there!" he exclaims, his fear palpable.

The third human nods, eyes frantic. "It was huge," he whispers, eyes wide.

Maroth feels his curiosity piqued at this. "A cavern, ya say? With a demon, right?"

Anerin shakes his head, slowly backing away. "No. No, no, no you can't possibly be thinking of going there, are you? You are, aren't you? Of course you are. Bloody shit," Aneirin says, shoulders slumped in defeat.

Maroth chuckles at his lover's uncharacteristic cussing. "Ya did promise an adventure, pet," he reminds the mage.

"Yes, yes," he mumbles. Aneirin glances at the humans, still standing there shaking. He lets out a weighted sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

"You three, piss off, right?" Maroth gestures behind the shems, barely even glancing at them as they stand there, slack-jawed.

Aneirin clears his throat. "Before my friend changes his mind," he adds dryly, causing Maroth to chuckle low.

* * *

The Fade forms around her, its ever shifting forms making Melina nauseous. Her stomach clenches in pain as her head swims, spots forming before her eyes. She sways on her feet but manages to stay upright, trying to ignore the niggling feeling that she shouldn't be here, that she isn't ready.

The ground spins beneath her feet as she takes a hesitant step forward. Her legs are shaky as she takes in gulps of air, a cold bead of sweat trailing down her spine.

She closes her eyes, taking in a slow deep breath. She can't fail. She can't. When she opens her eyes again, the ground is more firm. Or as firm as anything in the Fade ever can be. She wanders for a bit, curiosity eventually taking hold of her as she stares at the strange statues and floating, white orbs.

One white orb in particular is larger than the rest and it floats around her ankles, blowing her skirts around as she walks. She giggles when it brushes against her skin, the strange sensation tickling her ankles. She wonders what it might be, and a soft whispering blows through her mind. No words, just a sound that mimics the wind.

But she can sense something coming from it, some sort of pure emotion that she can't quite identify. It glows brighter when she probes it with her mind, and she can tell that, for lack of a better word, the spirit has felt a similar tickling sensation to the one she had felt when it touched her a moment ago.

She shakes her head, curls bouncing, as the Spirit continues to follow her; humming happily in her head. She walks for what seems like hours without going anywhere, the path always leading her back to the same point. In frustration, she throws up her hands and looks at the glowing Spirit. "I don't suppose you know where it is I'm supposed to go?" she asks it, not really expecting an answer.

She sighs and turns, trying to pick a different path. She hears a low growl from in front of her, and gulps again. "Maker, give me strength," she whispers as she ignores her instinct to run the opposite direction. She takes a few hesitant steps toward the sound, forcing herself ever forward.

"Maker's breath, what in all of Thedas is that?" she squeals, bouncing on the heels of her feet in excitement.

A strange bear-like creature is sprawled out on the ground in front of her. Strange spikes protrude from its body, and part of its skin is pulled tightly around one eye, revealing too much of the gleaming white orb.

Strangely, she has a strong desire to pet the beast, but resists. It probably isn't bad logic to assume a demon-bear will not enjoy being petted like a house cat, she figures, fighting her urge. Melina startles when the beast opens it other eye, this one a sickly red instead of white, to stare at her, unblinking.

She curtsies out of habit. "P-Pardon me, Ser Demon, but are you perhaps my test?" she asks.

The bear creature chuckles. "Ah... no, I am... not. I am... too weary for such mortal games... child. Begone," it says, voice grumbling with a strange whisper behind it, as if two creatures are talking in unison.

She stuffs her hands in her pockets to resist scratching it behind its ears. She isn't that keen on being the things dinner. "Are you here to help me, then?" she asks, earning an amused chuckle from it.

The creature peers at her a moment. "Perhaps... you could amuse me, for a moment. Perhaps you will play... a game... with me, mortal child?"

She bites her lip and the glowing orb buzzes angrily around the demon bear; who scoffs.

"Tell your... pet light to quit pestering me, or I shall make a snack... of you both," it grumbles, swatting at it with his paw. The motion is sluggish and delayed, though, and he misses entirely.

She waves at the orb, hands frantic. "Come here, you. Please," she whispers, and it obeys, much to her surprise. She glances back at the bear, biting her lip again before nodding. "Alright. I-I'll play your game," she replies, voice as soft as a whisper.

The bear grunts, settling back down. "Fine, very well then. The one who invented it... doesn't want it. The one who bought it... doesn't need it. The one who needs... it doesn't know it. What is it?"

Melina frowns as her mind searches for an answer. The little glowing orb hums around her head, and a word comes to her in a sudden burst. "Coffin?" she repeats, confused by the word echoing around inside her head. "Oh! It's a coffin!" she exclaims, understanding the riddle at once.

The bear grumbles, shifting to lay on its side. "Ah yes, very clever, young one." It grumbles some more in a way that sounds like it's trying to clear its throat. "My scale is something that does not weigh in grams, ounces... or pounds. However, I may be heavy or... light. What am I?"

Melina grins, her smile bright against the dimness of the Fade. "This one is easy," she replies. "Musical scales."

The demon grunts again. "Such a witty... mortal, you are," it says. "Here is your final... test are you ready?"

Melina nods, curious what type of help the creature will offer in return.

"What gets broken without ever... being held?"

Her shoulders slump as uncertainty overwhelms her, negative emotions feeling twice as strong in the fade. She isn't any good at puzzles. Why did they think she could do this? Why did _she_ think she could do this?

She holds back tears and takes in a deep breath, exhaling quickly. No, she won't let her fears defeat her. She can't. For Jalyn, and for Cullen, she has to survive this. Cullen will never forgive himself if he has to kill her, even if they both know it's only his duty. Besides, she had promised-

"Oh, Oh that's it! A promise!" she says, clapping her hands together in excitement.

The beast rolls its eye, the other one staying immobile. It's an eerie sight and a shiver runs down Melina's spine. "Well done... mortal. You sought a... prize... did you not?"

She nods again, hesitant. Should she really accept help from what appears to be a demon?

"Your prize... is simple. I... shall not eat... you," it replies.

There is a loud popping sound and smoke covers her eyes. It's thick and cloying as she sputters, clutching at her throat as she tries to breath through it. When it clears, and she can see once more, the demon bear is gone.

She spins around, looking for it, as the Fade starts to grow dim around her. A soft whisper follows her, calming her mind as she leaves the realm of dreams.

* * *

A sense of dread runs down Maroth's spine as he stares down the mouth of the dark cave. A rank smell emanates from it, and there's no light aside from his torch.

Aneirin raises his brow, leaning against his staff. "Afraid?" he asks, his tone without judgement.

Maroth shakes his head, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. "Ya daft? Not e'en a 'ittle bit, pet," he replies, forcing himself to stroll nonchalantly into the cavern.

Tiny spiders scurry out from in front of his boots, hiding from the lights of his torch and Aneirin's staff. Cobwebs cling to the corners and there's a layer of dust so thick Nesiara would've been frantic with a need to clean the place. He walks softly, taking comfort in Aneirin's echoing footsteps. He sees tiny relics as he goes; a broken chalice here and a half-shattered gem there. Nothing of value, just the bones of whatever or whoever lived here before, lost like something time forgot.

Aneirin stops dead in his tracks, brow furrowed as he stares up at a strange statue. Maroth peers at it, a strange cracked face worn with time and weather staring back. Its expression makes him feel uneasy, a strange shiver running down his spine.

Maroth frowns as he sidles up behind Aneirin. "What'sit?" he asks, resting his head on the mage's shoulder.

Aneirin shakes his head, and his hair tickles Maroth's nose. "I think it's one of the Dalish old gods, or whatever they call them. I saw something similar in Zathrian's camp, when I visited there for a time."

Maroth raises his brow. "So? It looks like an ol' elven temple then, w'at's so strange 'bout that?"

Aneirin blinks before responding. "The writing looks human," he replies.

Maroth sighs, moving away from Aneirin and the statue. "We won't make any coin off a statue. C'mon, let's see if those shems di'n't rob this place blind before they ran, the blighted cowards."

Aneirin shrugs. "As you wish."

A strange scuttling sound echoes above Maroth before he's knocked sideways by a gentle staff blast. He lands on his face, quickly scrambling to his feet and spinning around. His eyes grow wide as he sees a large spider, twice or more his size, reared up on his back legs, like it's about to pounce and make him its supper. Its body is frozen in a thick layer of ice, however, and can't move.

It shatters in a spray of ice crystals and spider bits as a large boulder slams into it from behind. Aneirin stands on the other side, a bead of sweat rolling down his face and a frown pulling his brows tight together.

Maroth grins, rolling his shoulders to release the tension that was beginning to settle there. "Well, t'at was fun. Thanks fer the spider shower," he quips.

Aneirin just stares at him a moment, blinking, before responding. "Yes, next time I'll allow it to eat you, my friend," he drawls.

"That's a bit 'asty, innit?" Maroth replies, looking around for his spear.

It had flown out his hands when he'd hit the ground, landing about a foot away. He grabs for it, glancing at the blood stained wood a moment, pulse quickening, before continuing onward down the passageways.

It's Vaughn's blood, and the blood of his entire family. Maroth can feel his lips curling in a tight smile as he remembers the way Vaughn had begged and pleaded for his life before Maroth had run him through. If he'd had more time back then, the shems death would have been slow, and pain-filled, for his crimes.

The cavern has plenty of spiders lurking in its corners that keep both men battling almost constantly until their muscles protest in pain. But worse than the spiders, even with their venom dripping fangs, are the walking corpses. The bodies shuffle and scrape against the ground as they stumble toward the two elves, their eyes nothing but gaping, empty sockets. One manages to pin Maroth against the wall. Its rotting arms stronger than they should be considering the... whatever it is is supposed to be dead as it holds him immobile.

Its teeth are jagged and broken as its jaw snaps dangerously close to his face. A tiny spider crawls out of the its eye and Maroth struggles not to vomit berries all over the horrible creature.

The corpse explodes in a shower of dust, and Maroth lets out a slow breath of relief. "Thank the Maker for ya, Aneirin," he swears.

The mage shrugs, brow creased together in a thin line. "One would almost assume you were trying to get yourself killed, the way you've been fighting," Aneirin remarks as they continue walking.

The farther in they go, the fewer enemies they have to fight. And that thought alone makes Maroth shiver, knowing that means something must be further in that has kept the spiders away.

Now, the only thing that assaults them as they walk, footsteps echoing dimly, are a few stray corpses; though their attacks seem halfhearted, for some reason.

Aneirin stops outside a door, head shaking back and forth. "We shouldn't go in there, Tabris." His voice is shaky, and he takes a few steps backward. "Something's not right, rotting and sick, inside that room. It feels like death."

Maroth nods slowly, backing away from the door. "Right. No coin's worth that shite," he mumbles.

A burst of energy throws them both back as the door snaps open; a creature made of fire and rage burning before them. An unholy growl emanates from its throat as it lunges at them. Maroth roughly shoves Aneirin out of the way, taking the brunt force of the demon's blow.

His skin burns and itches, and he tries not to claw at it until it's a raw, open wound instead of this terrible burn that tears at his mind and flesh simultaneously. The pain is beyond anything he's ever experienced, a blinding pain that steals his senses.

He can taste it in the back of his throat, the thick smell of his own burning flesh heavy on his tongue. It tastes pungent and raw and he gags, struggling to breath past the worst physical pain he's ever felt. And in that moment, he would have said it hurt worse than losing his family, the way it tears at his body and mind.

A calm feeling flows over him as the nausea and gagging resides, quicker than it had came. Maroth spins his spear to lunge at the demon, feeling his skin reform under Aneirin's healing spell.

But the demon is stronger, and turns them around, pushing them further and further into the room. Maroth feels his back bump against something and turns, startling at his bloodied reflection in a strange, elven mirror. He doesn't have time to study it, or the strange shapes he sees in its surface, as the demon continues to attack relentlessly.

A clawed hand sweeps out at Maroth as he ducks and tumbles away, ending up behind the beast. He grins before ramming his weapon into the demon's back, plunging through where he guesses its heart must be, if it has a heart. A terrible roar echoes throughout the room, bouncing off the stone walls as the creature howls in rage and pain.

Slowly it melts into the ground, fading from view beneath the stone. Aneirin sighs, leaning back against the mirror with his eyes closed.

Maroth frowns as he notices something staring back at him from behind the glass. Its eyes glow blood red and he sees nothing else except the quick flash of a grin, it's jagged white teeth gleaming in the darkness. Before Maroth has the chance to call out a warning, fear making his heart pound wildly beneath his chest, Aneirin spins around.

His eyes are wide as he stares at it. "He's... watching me... drawing me... in. Maroth, run! Now!" He shouts the last part, voice growing more frantic with each word.

Maroth hesitates by the doorway, feet frozen to the ground, panicking in the heat of the moment. His hand reaches out for him, stretching, so close...

"RUN!" Aneirin shouts, using his magic to throw him from the room. He lands just outside the door with a thud, tailbone crashing against the ground. Pain shoots through his body, stealing his breath for a moment. His hands scramble for purchase as he pushes himself to his feet. He runs, the bones in his ankle making a strange clicking sound, pain vibrating up his leg with each step. And even now, he believes Aneirin must be right behind him. That he used his magic and pulled himself free. Aneirin isn't like Nesiara. Aneirin's a mage. Mages are powerful.

They can't just die because of a mirror...

Right?

* * *

The sky is bright blue as Melina walks close to Wynne. A calm breeze blows her curls in a tangle and Evelina hands her a tie to keep her hair up. She tries not look around at everything like a wide-eyed child, but she hasn't been outside since she was five-years-old. Back then, the boat ride had been frightening as it took her toward Kinloch Hold; now it's equally as frightening rowing away.

She can see the back of Jowan's head as the boy sits next to Uldred. She scowls before sighing, bringing her attention back to the world around her. She looks over the edge of the boat at her warped reflection. Evelina nudges her with her elbow. "Scared?" she asks.

Melina nods. "A little. But it's so beautiful out here, isn't it?"

Wynne glances at her out of the corner of her eye. "Don't get lost in this temporary freedom child. After our duty is fulfilled, we'll be returning once more to where we belong."

"I won't, I promise," Melina whispers solemnly.

The grass crunches beneath her feet as they leave the boat, and a butterfly circles a bright purple flower. It really is beautiful, Melina thinks once more. She wishes Jalyn and Cullen could be here too, enjoying the wonders she's seeing.

She watches Jowan as they travel south, a burning distaste clawing around her stomach. She can't stop the thought that it should be Jalyn here, not Jowan. She closes her eyes, the sun warm against her fair skin. A fresh breeze blows, and the smell of flowers fills her senses. She's never smelled such a sweet scent before and her heart aches to be able to name the plant. She pictures Jalyn's face, scowling in the sunlight, before her eyes flutter open again. A dull ache has settled itself in her heart, but as she marches dutifully behind Wynne it shifts to a sharper pain, like a thousand needles poking her with each quickened beat.

Melina hides her shaking hands in the heavy cotton folds of her dress, shifting her gaze from the back of Jowan's head to Uldred's. His bald head gleams, like a polished orb in the yellow glow. She lets her shields slip, trying to sense that tingle of dark magic she had felt from him before. But if it's there, it's hidden well because all she can feel is a hollow emptiness from him. With a soft sigh, she puts her shields back in place, keeping a barrier firmly erected between the empathetic powers that allow her to commune with kind, healing spirits and the chaotic whirl of emotions belonging to the younger mages with them.

Maroth stops running as the realization that Aneirin isn't behind him hits like a strong punch to the stomach, bile and fear rising in his throat. His heart speeds up, which he wouldn't have considered possible since he's already terrified beyond belief, but the thought of losing Aneirin stops him cold in a way he hasn't felt since his wife was first kidnapped.

He turns to go back when a loud boom echos behind him, throwing him forward again. He flies through the air, heat and tainted magic burning behind him.

His head cracks against something hard, a sharp pain splintering his vision. As the sunlight fades from view, Maroth can't tell if the sun is setting or if he's losing consciousness. His final thoughts are of Aneirin, and the rare moments the man had smiled for him.

"Why so pensive, Amell?" Evelina says as she slows down to walk beside her.

Melina lets a soft sigh escape her lips as she looks around at the open fields around them. Her mind is a blur of memories of Jalyn and Cullen, heart thundering like war drums beneath her breast as she realizes how alone she is. "It's so big," she says instead, offering the older mage a small smile. "I guess I never thought that it'd be so big out here, is all."

Evelina frowns, peering at her through narrowed eyes. "You sure that's all, kid?"

This time it's Melina who frowns, lips pursed, but she hides it with her mane of white-blonde curls. "Of course, Enchanter," she replies, curtsying as she walks.

"Uh-huh. Well, don't be scared about the battle kid. They'l give you a nice, safe job your first battle."

"But, I'll be there to heal. I can't heal from far away," Melina replies, tilting her head. It makes no sense in her mind that they would bring a Spirit Healer to do anything other than heal. Especially not one with her low level of talent in any form of practical battle magic. She sighs again, a heavy weight settling in her chest at the thought of the battle looming on her horizon.

Evelina shrugs her shoulders, her long brown hair falling her her matching brown eyes. "Because the last thing they need is one of the ones on their side turning into an abomination under pressure. They want to make sure you can handle it." She glances to the sky, a wistful expression crossing her face as they walk. "They say killing anything can take a lot out of you, even if the thing you're killing is just a twisted darkspawn monster. Death leaves a stain on man's soul, and our souls are already stained with sin." Evelina turns, shooting her a quick grin. "Or, that's what someone like Keili would say, right?"

As Evelina chuckles, Melina shakes her head in disagreement. "Kellie only wants to follow the Maker's plan and atone for our magic," she replies, voice whisper soft.

"We don't have anything to atone for," Evelina mutters under her breath, glancing sidelong at the templars marching on either side of them.

Wynne turns her head, eyes solemn and patient. "Be careful of your words, for our protectors hear better than you think, young Enchanter."

She shrugs, shoulders poking through her loose robes. "Right, our protectors," she mocks, voice hushed. Evelina scowls beneath her side fringe, lips in a thin line. "May the Andraste bless you, Senior Enchanter, for your ever unwarranted advice."

"Evelina," Melina exclaims, shock making her almost stop dead in her tracks.

Wynne chuckles softly. "Don't worry, child. I'm not so old that I can't beat a former apprentice with my cane for impudence, even if they are an Enchanter themselves now."

Evelina scoffs, rolling her eyes with a tiny smile. "Ah, you're nothing but an old biddy, using your staff as a common walking stick. Besides, if you beat me, I won't be able to fight in the oncoming battle. Such a shame that would be," she replies.

"What makes you presume your skills are so invaluable that you'll be missed? Such arrogance," Wynne quips back, and Meline hides a giggle behind her hand.

Melina can't help but smile as she continues to enjoy their casual banter. She wishes she were bold enough to join in but she doesn't really know what to say. Besides, she enjoys listening and observing, now that she's finally learned to shield with success.

She can only hope she'll be useful in the battle, too.

* * *

It should be destroyed. Maroth knows it, feels it in the pit of his stomach. Guilt and self-loathing rip into him. He is the bringer of death or pain to everyone he's ever known. For a moment, he wonders if Merrill and her clan are safe with his daughter, or if they'd died like everyone else.

But he pushes the morbid thought aside, refusing to acknowledge even the possibility of his daughter's death. Not now. Especially not now. Instead, he focuses on his desire to avenge Aneirin, and destroy the blasted mirror. He turns, heading in the opposite direction until he finds the camp spot he had first stayed at with the solitary mage. He takes a deep breath, steadying himself, before stepping forward to enter the Dalish camp.

"'Ello, Mithra," he says, staring down the wrong end of an arrow.

The firelight casts an eerie glow over the shadowed faces of her fellow mages, or at least the ones who were still awake. Melina wraps her shawl tight around her rounded shoulders, staring into the dancing flames as they lap at the logs. Ashes blow in the soft breeze, twirling around with the smoke.

She takes a deep breath as Niall scoots closer to her, tugging at her shawl. Melina offers him a smile and holds out an edge to share the warmth. Niall clears his throat, chewing thoughtfully on his lip.

"Have you seen a darkspawn before, Senior Enchanters?" he asks, looking toward Wynne and Uldred.

Uldred scoffs, taking a long swig from a metal container. "Of course not. There's been no blight in so long. We're sure to see some on the way to Ostagar, boy."

"Such dramatics, Uldred, my my," Wynne says, shaking her head as her lips twitch upward. "They're said to be tainted creatures, cast down from the once Golden City for their sin of greed and for stepping where mortals should not be seen."

"Chantry myth to scare Thedas into fearing and hating mages twice as much," Uldred shoots back, voice quiet.

"It may be allegory, meant to teach us the dangers of magic and greed, but at least it gives one something to think on." Wynne keeps her back straight as she pokes a stick in to the log, turning it to catch brighter in the flames. Her expression looks far away, as if she can see something in the fire noone else can see.

"I think-" Melina begins, twisting the fabric of her dress in her plump hands.

Evelina scoffs, standing to her feet. "Yer both nutters," she mutters, and Melina's heart clenches at the Denerim accent creeping through. It's the same accent Jalyn would have each time she felt angry, or frustrated.

Melina bites her lips, her sentence lost in the crackling of burning wood and tension. Evelina turns abruptly on her heel, marching over toward her bedroll with a mocking salute to the nearest templar.

Wynne sighs, causing Melina to look toward her mentor. "That girl is going to get herself into trouble one day for that propensity."

"Trouble? Or freedom, Wynne? Which one do you fear more?" Uldred gets to his feet, staring down at them. "You're all fools if you think magic is some sort of sin. Magic is a gift. Meant to serve, and be used, not wasted and locked away in some Maker forsaken tower."

Wynne raises a single eyebrow as she stares up, unblinking, at Uldred. Her body is held with a quiet stillness as the moon cast a white glow on her silver hair. "You speak of this idea of freedom as if it can be so easily obtained. Our magic is dangerous, and more easily twisted to harm than a mere sword or arrow."

Uldred's upper lip curls in clear disgust before he, too, turns toward his bedroll. Niall leans his head into one hand, brow furrowed. "We should just stay away somewhere, away from everyone else."

Jowan frowns, shifting nervously in his spot. Melina startles, having forgotten the man was there, hiding in the shadows like a snake. She glares at him, eyes narrowed as chews on his lip. "I- I think we should just focus on the battles to come," Jowan says, eyes glued to the ground.

 _Blood mage._ She thinks the phrase with more venom than she's ever felt.

Wynne nods, smiling softly. "Truer words have yet to be spoken tonight, child," she says, folding her hands in her lap.

Melina shoots to her feet, curtsying toward Wynne. "I think I'm tired, Enchanter Wynne. Goodnight, and may Andraste protect you in your dreams." She turns, ignoring Jowan as she walks with faint footsteps and a heavy heart.

The flames twist and dance in the shimmering silver armour of the nearest templar. Melina watches it, blanket drawn tight to hide her face. She focuses on the patterns and shapes, thoughts drifting as her eyelids slowly grow leaden with sleep.

She hates him. She knows she shouldn't, that only the Maker has the right to place such judgement. Hate is a strong emotion, screaming at the demons to crowd closer in glee. Melina knows she shouldn't hate anyone, least of all someone who was loved by someone she cares for so deeply.

But she does.


	2. Chapter 2

Jalyn's mind is a quiet space, an empty space filled with a single-minded task to follow orders. Sometimes, when the circle is quiet and the mages have gone to bed, she can remember the feelings she held before the tranquility. Far away, like a distant fog she can't touch, she never feels the emotions but the memories they created still swirl around her mind sometimes.

But she doesn't miss them. She doesn't miss the people she knew, doesn't feel sad over her loss. She feels nothing at the stirring of memories below the surface haze.

She overhears the blonde templar, Cullen, talking of a war. Some sort of monster, a thing they call darkspawn, have become a horde on the surface. Cullen meets Sister Lily's eyes; her red hair pulled into a ponytail as she hears his confession.

"I am worried for her safety. I cou-couldn't live with myself if she died when I- I could have protect-tected her." His voice is soft, like a whisper, but the cadence is high pitched, almost keening, filled with fear and regret.

Sister Lily curves her lips into a smile, skin stretching and crinkles forming around her eyes. "I don't think the Maker would call friendly concern a sin, Ser Cullen," she says, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.

Cullen scoffs. "Friendly. Right," he mutters, shaking his head as his face shifts from the pale grey colour of those who haven't seen sunlight in awhile to a bright red, flushed as he looks at the ground. "Forgive me Maker, for I have sinned." He crosses his heart, closing his eyes with a hefty sigh.

Their words are meaningless to Jalyn, but a flash of memory enters her mind at his tone of the Amell mage caught in a shadowed embrace with the templar, a brief press of lips that can barely be called a kiss. There was an emotion there, once. Conflicting. Colliding.

But she can't bring it forward. She looks down at her hands, filled with supplies from the stockroom. She takes a step forward, meeting Senior Enchanter Leorah's eyes. "I have need of these ingredients." She speaks the words slowly, focused, direct, handing her a list of things.

Leorah peers down her nose, squinting at her. "Right. Uh, Surana." She pauses, looking away and shifting her body.

"I am making you uncomfortable." Jalyn says the words plainly, unblinking, hair pulled back in a tight ponytail.

"Huh? Oh, uh, no! Well, a little," she admits with a shrug. "Well, no matter. What shall I say these are for?"

Jalyn looks back down at the supplies, an assortment of lyrium, etching agents, and runes. "Enchantments."

Enchanter Leorah nods. "Right. Maker's blessings to, uh, oh... ." She trails off, though Jalyn doesn't understand why or why the woman appears discomforted.

She turns, unconcerned, and heads toward her enchantment table. She empties her mind of thought, focusing solely at the task at hand. Greagoir says the soldier's in the war need more enchanted weapons and armour. She's good at enchantments, her thin hands moving deftly as a gentle buzzing echos in her mind, and she finds the work to be quite agreeable.

* * *

Maroth looks around the Dalish camp, eyes wide and heart beating fast beneath his chest. Many of the Dalish lay on the ground, faces pale beneath their tans. Their vallaslin stands out in stark relief as sweat rolls down their skin. Their cries of pain tug at his heart and he forces himself to look away, to meet Keeper Zathrian's eyes. The man's gaze is a mix between forlorn and bitter anger, the golden brown orbs filled with the pain of his people and the hopelessness they all face.

"Shite," Maroth whispers, crossing his heart. "What in the Maker's name 'appened here, Zathrian?"

The Keeper narrows his eyes, gripping his staff tightly in his hand, knuckles white. "Have you not seen, flat ear? The werewolves in the forest attack my people. I haven't the time for whatever it is you want. Go back to your shemlen masters, and leave us be."

Maroth growls low in his throat, clenching his fists. "The shems are not my masters, so watch yer tongue baldy," he replies, voice low with anger.

Zathrian raises an eyebrow, contempt clear on his lined face. "My people need me, flat ear. What do you want? I am surprised to see your pet mage is not here with you."

Grief gnaws at his heart as he glares at the Keeper. "Aneirin is dead," he says, tone short. Pain clenches around his heart, driving the breath from him as he struggles not to let it consume him.

This seems to give the Dalish Keeper pause, his expression softening only slightly. "Then I am sorry for your loss. He was killed by a werewolf, no doubt? The beasts plague us all."

Maroth shakes his head, running a hand through a tangle of his hair. "No, it was a friggin' mirror that killed him."

"A... mirror? Truly?" Zathrian's tone is incredulous as he stares back at Maroth, unblinking. "And you came here? Why?"

He shrugs his shoulders, a sigh escaping his lips. "Before Aneirin died, he said some strange shite. Something about a Dalish statue with shem writings. Bunch of frigging weird shite, it was, but figured you might have an idea w'at it was?"

"I might, flat ear," Zathrian says, shaking his head. "But I cannot help you. We can barely help ourselves right now."

Maroth looks around at the frightened Dalish as they care for their injured, heart skipping a beat. "Then, maybe I can help you, if ya help me once this beasty problem is done?"

Zathrian scoffs, turning away. "You are no warrior, flat ear. You are of no use to us. Begone," he replies, his robes swishing nosily as he walks away.

"Friggin' asshat," Maroth mutters.

A soft chuckle causes him to turn his head, meeting the grey-blue eyes of Lanaya. "W'at you laughin' at? Think it's funny, do ya, the flat ear askin' fer help? Noisy little shites, the lot of ya," he grumbles, glaring.

Lanaya frowns, brow crinkling. "I meant no offense, friend. You must forgive Zathrian, he does not mean to be so short tempered. The plight of our clan weighs heavily on his mind, is all."

Maroth lets out a rude snort, making an obscene gesture at the Keeper's back. "He's still an arsehole, yeah?"

"Oh no, he's actually very kind," Lanaya replies, tone full earnest. "Please, you mustn't be angry. He would offer his help, if there were help to give."

Maroth just shrugs, turning away, shoulders slumped in defeat. The prospect of trying to destroy the mirror on his own is daunting indeed. Magic always gave him the willies, and this magic is stranger than most he's encountered. The fear in Anerin's voice still echos in his mind, a sound that terrifies him and breaks his heart all at once. Never in all the time he has- had- known the mage had he ever heard even a smidgen of fear. The tainted aura from that mirror is so strong, even Maroth can feel it, though. What must it have been like for Aneirin to be caught in its grasp? Probably friggin' terrible. Maroth suppresses a shiver, trying to banish the wave of terror enveloping his mind.

"Wait, friend," Lanaya calls out, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Do you truly mean to help?"

He glances at the pretty lass over his shoulder, offering her a wry grin. "You'd accept help from a flat ear like me, then?"

She bites her lip, clearly hesitating, before nodding her head. "I only want to save my people," she whispers. "Please."

* * *

Melina picks at her crust of bread, sun beating down on the back of her neck. The weather has shifted from cool, rainy days to hotter days that make beads of sweat roll off her face. It's strange that the weather isn't all the same, everywhere. She wonders if that's the way of it everywhere, or just here in Ferelden. She closes her eyes, the grass soft beneath her bare feet and ankles. Her robe is thick, a heavy wool that feels suffocating.

The ripping of cloth makes her heart jump, stuttering in fear. Her eyes fly open and she turns her head, glancing over her shoulder. She looks up at Evelina, whose legs are suddenly bare. A piece of ripped cloth, presumably from the bottom of her robes, is held in her hand.

"Maker's breath, Evelina! What in Thedas are you doing?" Melina asks, cheeks turning red with second-hand embarrassment.

Evelina laughs, causing most of the nearby templars to frown. "It's hot, and these robes are heavy," she says, grinning.

Wynne comes over, a long robe in hand. "And also the only protection we have, girl. Now go on and put this on behind that bush over there. Templar Raisa will escort you and please, don't rip this one," she orders.

Evelina scowls, snatching the garment from Wynne. "Fine. But it's still bloody hot."

Wynne crosses her arms as they walk toward a large nearby bush. "Imagine how hot heavy metal armour is then," she quips, wrinkled lips pulled down in a tight frown.

Melina looks around at the templars, their faces red and sweaty. "I wish there was something we could do to help them," she says, voice soft.

Wynne nods, patting her head. "I know, child," she replies, walking away.

"Alright you lot, as soon as that one finishes getting dressed properly, we'll be on our way again. I'd like to reach Ostagar by nightfall so we can all rest easy," Knight-captain Hadley says, a calm expression on his face.

She pushes herself to her feet, brushing stray bits of grass off her robes.

"Melina?"

Her head jerks up as she glares at Jowan, shoulders tightening. "What do you want?" she asks, keeping her voice as calm as possible.

He frowns, fingers twisting around the hem of his sleeve. "I just wanted you to know that I, uh, that is I don't think Jalyn would want us to be enem-"

"Jalyn is tranquil because of you," Melina interrupts, voice lowered to a hiss. "You have no right to speak on what she would want."

Her shields are shaky and she can feel the heavy weight of his emotions, a sharp pain ripping at her chest and sending scalding hot waves across her skin. An ache so deep it makes her want to die cascades from Jowan. She clenches her fists, knuckles turning white. "Don't use your blood magic on me," she accuses, refusing to believe the mage harbours genuine feelings, other than a lust for power.

Jowan's eyes widen, brows disappearing behind his bangs. "What? You think I'd be foolish enough to try that here of all places? With bloody templars surrounding us? I made a promise to Jalyn, that I'd never touch blood magic again. I won't break that promise, not even on my life." He shakes his head, lips twisting into a frown. "I know you won't believe me. It doesn't matter."

Melina folds her arms over her breasts, biting her lower lip. She takes a deep breath, bringing her shields back up, before speaking. "What do you want, Jowan?"

Jowan shrugs, rubbing his thumb along his finger. "You were her friend. I know she cared about you a lot. So, be careful on the battlefield. She wouldn't have wanted you to get hurt."

Melina clenches her jaw. She knows he's lying. Jalyn never cared about her. She wouldn't have left her like this if she had. "Liar," she says, voice rising. "You're nothing but a filthy liar!" she continues, this time shouting.

A gloved hand connects with her lip. "You, spirit talker, keep your mouth shut, ya hear?" the templar says.

The pain is small, a soft pulsing mostly in her lips, but a tiny spot of blood trickles toward her chin. She isn't angry over the blow, she knows she deserves it for letting her anger get the best of her. She knows better. Because she speaks with spirits to do the more complex healing spells, her, and mages like her, are feared even more than the average mage. Communing with spirits means Melina has to keep a tight reign on her emotions. The smallest bit of anger or lust can twist even the smallest of spirits into a terrible demon. She's being foolish, and she well knows it.

She looks at Jowan, taking in his wide eyes and madly fluttering pulse, like a trapped butterfly in his throat. "Melina... I-"

Melina shakes her head, turning and walking toward Wynne. She doesn't speak, doesn't cry. She keeps her head straight and still as she moves, barely even blinking as she focuses on remaining calm. Niall meets her there, a tiny jar of elfroot in his hand.

"I'm fine, Niall. I don't need any healing balm," she replies with a curtsy, lip still throbbing.

Niall frowns. "You do. But you'll never admit it."

They stop only once more on their long march to Ostagar. Melina hums to herself as she relieves her bladder on the side of the road, a crooked tree blocking her from view. She's grateful they've finally stopped for a rest, her ankles are sore and the discomfort from holding her bladder for so long had started to hurt.

"I don't think she's ready for this, Wynne. I know why she's here, but she's just too young still," Evelina whispers nearby, and Melina freezes.

She strains her ear to hear Wynne's hushed reply. "I know, but she's a good girl. She has a good heart."

Evelina snorts. "Kindness isn't enough, and you know it."

"Hush now, it does us no good to whisper about, gossiping like this."

Melina's heart pounds rapid fire against her ribs. They don't trust her. They don't think she's strong enough, even though she's passed her Harrowing.

Cold tears flow down her cheeks as she shifts over, kneeling down in the nearby grass. She clutches her robes in her hands, shoulders heaving with silent sobs. Loneliness claws at her, doubt creeping its terrible tendrils through her mind and convincing her of her uselessness. Taking a deep breath, she straightens her spin and slowly gets back up.

She refuses to let her emotions overwhelm her as she continues onward, marching alongside her fellow mages. She positions herself as far away from Jowan and Uldred as possible, standing between the templars and Wynne. Her muscles ache with pain, unused to so much walking. She misses the safety of the tower, the quiet hum of magic and the crackling of fires to chase out the drafty cold. The world outside is pretty, but fear snakes its way into her heart, thick tendrils twisting what she sees until all the wants is to go home, back to Kinloch Hold.

Ostagar is loud, minstrels sing and play music while the men drink, laughing by the fire. Melina stares with wide eyes, nose crinkling at the sharp astringent smell wafting in the air.

Evelina nudges her shoulder. "That's ale and whiskey you smell, kid."

Melina just nods, eyes still wide as she watches the soldiers. One of them turns to her, face chiseled with a scar running across his nose. He grins at her, winking. She tries to smiles back, nerves getting the better of her, and Evelina grabs her wrist.

"Don't look at the men, stupid. Most of 'em haven't seen a girl in months," she whispers in Melina's ear.

"Oh." Melina chews her lower lip for a moment. "What does that mean, exactly, Evelina?"

Evelina groans. "For the love of the Maker. It means they're wanting for sex, kid. Just, stay away, alright?"

Cheeks beating cherry red, Melina nods her head. "Right, of course."

The Knight-captain claps his hands, looking out at them with tired eyes. "And off to sleep, all of you. It's late, and we'll need you at your brightest tomorrow morning!"

Tents have already been made for them, so Melina crawls into her bedroll and closes her eyes, exhaustion making he whole body feel heavy. She's not used to this much marching and her muscles still ache with pain.

As sleep claims her, she slips into the Fade, body weightless and free as she calmly walks around. It feels peaceful, calm, and a glowing orb hovers near a pool of green water. She walks over to it, smiling as she hears it humming. A soft, high-pitched sound that reminds her of singing echos from the orb.

Melina curtsies to it before sitting down, staring up at with drooping eyes. She's never felt more relaxed in her life as she listens to the spirit orb talk. No words, but pictures gently flow through her mind, a story lost to time. She responds in kind, sharing memories of her own of her time in the circle.

Melina frowns up at the spirit. "I'm sorry, Ser Spirit. I haven't many memories to share, and none so interesting as your own stories."

It hums a little, bouncing as it hovers in the air. Another wave of calm washes over and she smiles, grateful the spirit doesn't seem to mind. It feels nice, to talk like this, quietly and without fear or judgement floating around her like a thick, oppressive blanket.

Suddenly, the spirit makes a strange sound, and Melina feels something similar to panic from it. She turns, eyes widening when she sees the flash of an old woman, hair long and white, before the orb vanishes. Images of a man in silver and blue armour flashes in her mind, carefully styled blonde hair and a rampant griffon on his shield. A sense of urgency to stay close to him overwhelms her, making her body tremble.

As she leaves the fade, she begins to forget, the memories of this encounter leaving her mind like water trickling out through a sieve. Only one image still remains with her as she blinks, the sunlight pouring in through her open tent and blinding her vision.

The woman had unnaturally yellow eyes.

The hustle and bustle of Ostagar is overwhelming as Melina walks closely behind Niall and Evelina, exploring the camp with Wynne's permission. Evelina is nearby, buying healing potions as ordered.

Melina hovers near two men talking, one with short brownish black hair and narrow eyes, and the other with long brown hair with a reddish tint to it.

"Well, you're not who I thought you'd be," the more squirrelly of the two says.

The other man, a shield strapped to his back, raises an eyebrow. "Oh? And what did you think I would be?" he asks, tone harbouring hints of amusement.

The thin man shrugs. "Not a fancy noble, that's for sure. The name's Daveth. You're here early, that's good. What's your name, friend?"

"You know I'm a noble but not my name?" he replies, lips quirking into a smile.

Daveth chuckles. "I know you're a Cousland, just not which one," he admits, glancing over at Melina and winking.

"Bryce. My name's Bryce, named after my father," he replies, voice cracking slightly, but the smile kept firmly in place. She can feel grief flowing from him in warm waves, a sharp pain that he shoves down below the surface.

"Well, Brycy," Daveth replies, gesturing at Melina, "it looks like we have an audience."

Byrce turns around, catching sight of Melina and grinning. "So we have." He bows low, a smirk on his face. "Hello, Milady."

Daveth grins, eyes gleaming. "What a lovely woman we have here, Brycy." He offers her another wink before continuing. "You looking for some company, sweetheart?" he asks, voice a rich murmur.

Melina blushes bright pink. "I- I, uh," she stutters out, eyes wide.

Cousland grins, clasping Daveth on the shoulder. "Sorry, my good fellow, but I'm more of a man's man, if you get my meaning," he says with a chuckle. "I'll leave this one for you."

Daveth smiles back. "How kind of you," he quips. "So, any last wishes I can help fulfill before you head into battle? Life is fleeting you know. That pretty face could be decorating some darkspawn spear this time tomorrow."

Niall sidles up to her, glaring at Daveth. "Come on, Melina. Evelina is done shopping, so we should head back to our camp." He tugs at her wrist, pulling her away from the man and his crude suggestion.

Melina nods, curtsying toward Daveth. "Good day, Ser. Pardon me," she whispers, before hurrying away. As they're heading back toward camp, Melina pauses. "Niall, is there a Revered Mother or Chantry sister here?"

Niall nods, jerking his thumb to their left. "Over there, and up those stairs by the merchant stall, by the old statue. Want for company?"

She shakes her head, curtsying before she turns to leave. "No, I just want to pray for a bit before the battle tonight. I'm feeling a bit nervous," she admits, before scampering off in the direction Niall had pointed her. As she goes, she can just barely hear Evelina mutter something in response, a faint whisper she wishes she hasn't heard.

"How boring."

Melina listens to the Chantry sister, eyes closed, hands folded neatly in her lap. She lets the words of the Maker wash over her, a soothing balm to her fluttering heart. She's not sure for how many hours she sits there, listening to the sermons, before the sister addresses her.

"Ah, one of the mages fresh from the circle. Will you accept the Maker's blessing?" the woman asks, a kind smile on her wholesome face.

Melina blinks at her, twisting the fabric of her robe in her hands. "But I 'm a mage, will He truly bless me?"

The Sister nods. "I merely pass on the Maker's blessing. He looks kindly on all who will receive him."

The young mage smiles, heart suddenly lighter than it has been since she left Kinloch Hold. "I would gladly accept your blessing, Sister." She kneels down, bowing her head toward the ground.

"In the name of Andraste, I bless you today. May you find favour in the Maker's eyes," the sister replies, holding a hand above Melina's head.

Melina gets to her feet and gives the sister a low curtsy. "Thank you, Sister. May the Maker watch over us all in the days to come."

She turns, bumping into a burly man with closely cropped hair. "Beg pardon, Milday," he mumbles, moving to kneel before the Sister.

"Oh! uh, of course," she replies, cheeks heating up in embarrassment as she rushes off to find Wynne across the camp. She smiles when the sees her mentor, but the smile quickly fades into a frown as she notices Jowan standing there with her.

A heavy weight has settled in Melina's chest. Fear of the battle to come, and eagerness to prove herself, all mix together as she stands dutifully in front of Wynne, waiting for orders. Wynne offers her a small smile. "Alright, you two," she begins, looking back and forth between Melina and Jowan, "we've heard word from Teyrn Loghain that the Tower of Ishal needs clearing out. Since this is your first battle, you'll be assigned there to assess your placement in oncoming battles. You need to clear out the tower so that the Grey Wardens leading the charge to light the signal beacon have a clear route. Understood?"

Melina nods her head, resisting the urge to glare at Jowan with a burning hatred she knows she shouldn't feel. "I will do my best, Wynne," she replies, curtsying to her beloved mentor.

"Your best isn't good enough, Amell. We need you to do better than that, can you do it?" Wynne asks, not unkindly.

The young mage swallows, a small bead of sweat trickling down her forehead. "Yes, ma'am," she replies. "I won't fail you, I promise."

She hurries to the Tower of Ishal with Jowan at her side, her carved wooden staff in hand. As soon as the enter the crumbling tower, the stench of darkspawn is thick in the air, and Melina struggles not to gag. Her stomach churns as their innate darkness threatens to overwhelm her. Her magic flickers, unable to draw breath, as one of the monsters charges her. She can't even scream as the mace comes nearer, her vision narrowed on the menacing weapon. The world around her seems to slow as she stands there, paralyzed with fear.

Jowan knocks into her, shoving her out of the way of the darkspawn's blow. They roll on the ground, a tangle of limbs, before he moves to fling a spell at the beast. She doesn't even have time to thank him, shocked to her core that he would try so hard to save her.

He draws up his own magic, and she can feel that it's clean, free of corruption. Frowning, she struggles to her feet to join him in battle against the great beasts, pushing away her doubts. She casts a paralyze glyph on the ground, holding the creature in place as Jowan throws a massive boulder at it with his mana.

A sharp pain shoots through her shoulder, stealing her breath as she falls to her knees. Melina cries out, a high pitched sound that pierces the air. She turns to see a tall darkspawn looming over her, saliva dripping from its mouth. A dog leaps toward it, growling as it sinks it's teeth in to the monster's twisted flesh.

"Never fear, Mi'lady, Lord Cousland is here to save the day! And I brought these other louts with me, as well," a voice says, ringing with cocky assurance.

She recognizes the voice instantly as the man from before, the one called Bryce Cousland the Second. She offers him a smile a gratitude and a small curtsy, and breathes of a small sigh of relief that the battle is over. At least, for now.

She glances over at the two men with him. She recognizes one as Daveth, but the other she's never seen before. His blonde hair is carefully styled in the front and his golden brown eyes shine with determination and kindness. She lets down her shields, searching their emotions. Her breath catches in her throat as she recognizes a dark tainted spot inside their minds.

"You're the Grey Wardens," she whispers, chastising herself for not having noticed their armour sooner.

The blonde smiles gently at her. "Yes, that's right. Name's Alistair. Sorry we don't have time to chat, but we need to reach the top of the tower right away."

A harsh warning rips through her mind and she scrambles to her feet. "Wait! I will join you. I'm a Spirit Healer, you- you might be of need of me," she says, forcing herself to meet Alistair's steady gaze.

Daveth nudges him with his shoulder. "Can't hurt to have a healer with us, right? Come on then, pretty thing, let's go."

Alistair nods, releasing a small sigh. "Alright, we could use the help, all things considered. There aren't even supposed to be any darkspawn here," he mutters with a shake of his head.

Jowan bites his lip next to her before speaking. "I want to go as well. I don't want to stay down here by myself," he says, voice soft. He glances over at Melina, eyes pleading.

She wants to tell him no, that they don't need the help of a blood mage. But he had saved her life a moment ago. She can hardly let him stay alone, where he might die. She gives him a curt nod before looking away, reaching for her staff on the ground. It feels cool against her hand, and she's grateful for the familiar comfort it brings.

Cousland grins, winking toward Jowan. "You're coming along, too then? I'll watch your backside, if you watch mine, sweet thing?"

Jowan blushes beet red, eyes widening slightly. "I- I uh..." he stutters, causing Daveth to laugh.

"I think ya flustered the poor kid, Brycy. Try to be a bit more subtle with yer flirting, right?" Daveth says with a chuckle.

Alistair groans, walking toward the stairway that will lead them to the next floor. "Maker preserve me," he whispers, a small half-smile tugging at his lips.

* * *

Maroth stares at the two Dalish elves in front of him, eyebrows raised in disbelief. One seems to be an elder, with his dark grey hair pulled back in a short ponytail. His stormy grey eyes hold a grief so strong it staggers Maroth for a moment before he's forced to look away. The other one is a woman, her dark brown hair cut short and an angry scowl etched on her pointy face. He glances over at Lanaya, lips twisting down in a frown.

"So, whats this, then? Two of yer hunters is all you think I need to slay this "Witherfang", right? Fat lot of chance that has," he grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest. "Fools the lot of ya."

The one named Panowen narrows her eyes, rubbing the pad of her thumb along her dagger. "My blade is strong, flat ear, and I will slay any of the werewolves that stand in our way," she replies, her voice a deep growl.

"Right, that's a healthy attitude, then." Maroth shakes his head, shifting his gaze to the one called Athras. "And w'at say you, old man?"

Athras frowns, the lines around his eyes deepening. "I may be old, child, but my bow arm is still steady. The creatures murdered my wife, Danyla. You have my oath that I will not waver."

Maroth's eyes widen at the man's words. An image of Nessy flashes in his mind before he dips his head in respect. "Sorry fer yer loss, then," he mumbles.

He turns again toward Lanaya, heart heavy with trepidation. "Just us three, right? Or are you comin' long, too?"

Lanaya bites her lip, brows furrowed in thought. "Aye, I will come with and offer my magic. Zathrian will not approve, so we should move fast before he notices we are gone."

Maroth nods his head, a quick jerk, before making his way toward the edge of camp. The sun offers little heat as it sinks over the horizon, and Maroth wonders for a moment at the wisdom of doing battle in the dark. He tries to keep his mind clear as he walks along the forest, his companions close behind him and Lanaya at his side. A bright glow lights their path, coming from the mage's staff. It's hard to look at the woman; her eyes remind him of his sweet Nessy. He grips his weapon tightly in his hand as rabid growls echo around him. Fear stops him cold as a small group of the weres charge them. Twisting vines shoot up from the ground, gripping one the beasts and holding it still. Maroth lets out a battle cry before leaping toward it, impaling the monster with his spear.

The beast cries out in pain, a horrid shriek that pierces the air with its morbid sound. A chill runs down Maroth's spine as he fights alongside the Dalish hunters and Lanaya, thanking Andraste as the last one falls. They soon fall into a steady rhythm, walking a few paces before engaging in battle only to repeat the process over again. Even the trees soon rise up against them, their great branches knocking into him as he wonders how in the void you kill a friggin' tree. Lanaya's magic seems to hold they key as she slays the mad sylvans, eyes narrowed in fevered concentration.

With each step through the forest, he begins to hate nature more and more. He even begins to miss the city, with its crumbling buildings and the stench of desperation that permeated the place. What he wouldn't give for a warm bed and trees that stand still like they should.

His body feels weary as they stand before a large tree. Maroth leans on his spear, wiping the sweat from his brow, before speaking. "We oughtta rest," he says, meeting Lanaya's eyes. "I'm bloody tired, and this forest is giving me the jitters."

The mage woman is about to answer, lips parted, when the ground shakes beneath their feet.

"What manner of beast be thee, that comes before this Elder Tree?"

Maroth spins around, eyes wide. His heart skips a beat as he watches the great tree move its branches, staring down at him with wooden eyes. "What the friggin' shite are you?" He whispers the question, crossing his heart in fear.

The tree shifts, leaves shaking as it moves. "Allow me a moment to welcome thee. I am called the Grand Oak, sometimes the Elder Tree," it replies.

Lanaya stares up at it, jaw slack, before she shakes her head. "Mythal protect us," she says, frowning. "Are you a demon? A spirit? Why have you not attacked us as the others have?"

"Ah, thou speakest of the others, how filled they are with hate? I apologize on their behalf; they cannot control their fate."

Maroth swallows, paling as he stares up at the great tree. "Right, it rhymes then? What the frig is up with a rhyming tree? Blasted forest, full of weird shite. Right then, if you can speak, tell us where the werewolves hide."

He listens as the Elder Tree continues to speak, each sentence rhyming with the last. He asks for help in return, refusing to answer any questions unless they retrieve an acorn. Maroth shakes his head in disbelief, the surreal notion of a talking tree asking for anything still making his head spin. "A bloody acorn? Yer joking, yeah?" Maroth sighs. "Right. I'm guessing I can't just pick up any acorn off the ground, then, yeah?"

"It must be the acorn of my own seed, the one stolen by a thief from me. If you complete this task, this deed, then thankful I shall be."

Panowen scoffs, brows knitted tight with anger. "I say we kill this beast and take from it what we need."

The ground begins to vibrate with anger as Athras speaks. "Nay, stay your dagger, da'len. We need not anger the spirit when it has caused us no harm."

The forest floor stops shaking, the rage of the Elder Oak quieted with Athras' words. Maroth nods slowly. "Right. Can this shite get any weirder today? Tainted mirrors, mad trees that attack quicker than shite, and now a poet tree that wants we fetch an acorn, yeah? Frig. Alright, whatever you are, we'll get yer acorn then."

Lanaya offers him a small smile. "I agree, it would be wise not to anger the Grand Oak."

The Grand Oak bows, sort of, shaking it's leaves at them. "Preform the boon that I ask, and I shall preform thou's task."

Maroth grunts, turning away. "Right then, how hard can it be to find a single friggin' acorn in the middle of a forest?"

Lanaya chuckles. "It's good you've retained your sense of humour, my friend," she replies. "But if someone stole it, he cannot be too hard to find." She pauses for a moment, one brow raised. "I hope," she adds, a wry smile twisting her full lips.

Despite their plan to help the talking tree, the forest doesn't ease up it's assault. More sylvans attack, roots rising from the ground to twist around their ankles, forming a cage that holds them frozen. But Lanaya's magic is strong, and despite the wounds that cover his body, their able to continue on. "Thank Andraste for your healing spell, Lanaya," Maroth says, smiling his gratitude at her.

She opens her mouth to reply but freezes instead, head cocked to the side. "I feel strange magic up ahead. It's not Dalish, and it feels powerful, corrupted." She shivers slightly and Panowen places a hand on her shoulder.

"Whatever it is, we shall defeat it, lethallan," Panowen says, voice firm.

Athras sighs. "You're so eager to enter battle, da'len. I say we err on the side of caution. Perhaps the one who bares this magic knows of the acorn thief?"

"Or they are the acorn thief," Maroth mutters, cracking his neck and squaring his shoulders. "Come on, then. Let's see what weird shite this one has to offer."

Lanaya chuckles again. "Ah, perhaps when this is over, you could join our clan, my friend? Your sense of humour would be greatly welcomed."

He raises a brow at her as they walk toward a hollowed out tree stump. "Yeah? You accept flat ears, do ya?"

"I was not originally from Zathrian's clan, so the answer is yes," she replies with a wink. "And you can teach us of the ways of our city brethren, perhaps we have much to learn from each other? It seems strange to me, to imagine our people crushed together among so many buildings and shemlen."

Maroth peers into the stump, nodding his head agreeably before a loud cracking noise splinters the air.

"What's this? Who are you? Leave an old man's home alone!"

Maroth blinks at the man suddenly standing before him in tattered robes. "Where in the bloody void did you come from?" he asks, fear making sweat roll down his neck.

Lanaya steps forward. "Be wary, friend. He holds dark magic in his heart."

The mage's eyes are wild as he swings his arms at nothing in particular. "Questions, questions, always questions. They say it was questions that drove me mad; will it do the same for you?"

"Yer a few eggs short of a dozen, right? Bloody void." Maroth sighs as he begins to regret his life choices. Perhaps wandering the forest on a quest to slay a werewolf, or whatever the void Witherfang happens to be, isn't his smartest plan. "Andraste guide me," he mutters.

Athras steps forward, a hesitant smile crinkling his eyes. "Mythal's blessing, stranger. Might we sit by your fire, perhaps engage in conversation for a moment? We've been travelling all night, and could use a rest for a moment."

"Rest? To lean or lay, set or stand? Such strange speech, but I have a game I wish to play, yes I do," the mad man replies, a strange giggle bubbling from his lips at the end.

Maroth takes a step back, the hairs on the back of his neck on edge. "Right then. A game, you say? Hopefully it's not a deadly game, yeah?"

The mage stomps his foot, brows furrowed and eyes narrowed. "No, no, no! A question for a question, an answer for an answer! That's how you play the game!"

Panowen opens her mouth, but Lanaya cuts her off. "So, you want us to answer a question?

The man grins, eyes sparkling dangerously. "Wouldn't I have to ask a question first?"

Panowen scoffs, throwing her hands into the air. "Is that not a question itself, old man?"

"Would you know a question if it were asked?"

Maroth feels his head spinning with frustration. "You've got to be kidding me," he grumbles.

"No! That is not a question! You must play by the rules!" The old man jumps around from foot to foot, arms waving through the air.

"Tread carefully, friend," Lanaya cautions.

"Oh, by the Maker's nutsack. Fine, do you want to ask a bloody question, then?" Maroth crosses his arms, fed up with talking trees and mad old hermits. "Friggin' hate nature," he adds under his breath.

"I think it is your turn to ask, is it not?"

Maroth stares at the man for a moment, mind caught in a whirl. He just needs to get the damnable acorn, preferably without engaging in more battle. Fighting deranged trees is bad enough, adding a blood mage to the mix isn't on his list of things to do tonight. He wracks his brain for a moment, trying to figure out how in the void to get the acorn, if the man even has it, when an idea hits him. "Do you have anythin' worth tradin' fer?" he asks, winking at Lanaya.

The Dalish First grins back, nodding appreciatively. "Smart question," she whispers to him.

The old man waves his arms about, spinning in a circle before answering. "Let's see... I have an acorn, a helmet I found, and a book I finished reading ages ago. Provided you have something interesting in return?"

Maroth chuckles. Finally, something goes right. "I want to trade for the acorn, right?"

"And what do you have in return?"

Shite. Maroth glances over at Lanaya, who shrugs her thin shoulders at him. Athras steps forward, a solemn look on his face. He takes a wooden pendant from his pocket, two circling hawks carved into the surface. "This was made by our clan's craftsman. It isn't much, but it's all I have to offer," the elder elf says, handing the amulet to the hermit.

"An amulet, you say? Yes, yes I will take it! Give it here!" The crazed man snatches the amulet from Athras, an insane smile twisting his lips. He turns it over in his hand before biting into it. "Not very tasty, is it?" He lets out a mad laugh before reaching into his pocket, taking out a small acorn. "Here then, take it and be gone!" The mad man tosses the acorn toward them, which Maroth catches deftly.

Maroth raises an eyebrow at Athras. "Thanks," he mumbles. "Right then, let's go talk to the friggin' tree again, yeah?"

* * *

Shock holds Melina in place as she stares up at the large, purple ogre. It's hand slowly reaches for her, saliva dripping from its fangs. She lets out a frightened scream as the Grey Warden, Cousland, knocks her to the side. The beast grabs him instead, slamming him over and over onto the floor before tossing him aside.

"No!" Melina cries out, casting a paralyze glyph a moment too late. "Maker, give me strength," she whispers, pelting it with ice as the other Grey Wardens and Jowan attack it from the opposite side. She casts spell after spell, fueling her mana with lyrium until she sees the Warden called Alistair climb up the beast using his sword and a dagger. He stabs it in the heart and it falls to the ground, shaking the entire room as it lands.

Melina rushes over to Warden Cousland, tears dripping down her chin. "Maker forgive me," she prays, trying to heal his broken body. But it's no use; blood trickles from his mouth as he struggles to breathe past the pain.

His lips waver as he smiles up at her. "Do not cry for me, Mi'lady. I go eagerly to the Maker's side in the hopes I will see my family again." His eyelids flutter close as she bows her head.

A hand is on her shoulder, and she looks up to meet Warden Daveth's eyes. "Hey there, sweetheart, don't be sad. We've still got work to do, right?" His eyes hold sorrow that his words don't reveal. "Come one, we've surely missed the signal by now."

She swallows, grabbing his hand as he lifts her to her feet. With a heavy heart, Melina watches Alistair light the beacon, sweat rolling down his face.

Fear makes her heart skip a beat as the door slams open. She turns quickly, feet slipping on the blood soaked floor. An arrow pierces her heart and she can feel her life slipping away as her head hits the ground with a resounding crack. "Maker, take me to your side," she whispers softly, darkness growing strong around her.

As the shadows grow darker, and her life ebbs away, she swears she can see a strange shape forming above her. Her final thoughts contain a question; is that a dragon?


	3. Chapter 3

Melina can hear a fire crackling, the sound heart wrenching in its familiarity. Her eyes are leaden, painful and heavy, as she lies perfectly still. She can feel a scratchy wool blanket cover her body, rough against her bare skin. Bare skin? She's naked, down to nothing but her breast band and panties. She thanks the Maker at least those items remain. She struggles to remember what happened, some clue that might point to where she's at, but the last thing she can recall is a darkspawn arrow piercing her heart.

A soft shuffling sound alerts her that she isn't alone, but she keeps her eyes closed tight. She focuses instead on the smells around her. Sweet smoke wafts throughout the room, a scent she places as a magical incense, meant to calm and relax the mind before meditation. It's sweet with a hint of bitterness behind it, made of berries found in the Korcari Wilds. She breathes it in, a small smile in her heart. Behind the incense though is a darker scent, of dust and old bones, laced behind the sweeter smell. She recognizes the smell of old bones from the Tower of Ishal, where they had found a few skeletons left to rot over the ages. Her heart skips a beat as fear pulses through her. Why is that smell here? Is she in danger? A thousand thoughts swirl through her mind as she listens to the soft scuffling of feet against a wooden floor.

A heavy bulk is situated at her feet, sharing the bed with her, but she can't tell what it is. She prays it isn't anything dangerous.

"You are awake, are you not? Come then, my mother wishes to see you," a voice says, haughty and commanding with a strange accent she can't quite place.

Melina slowly opens her eyes, blinking against the bright sunlight pouring in through an open window. Her eyes light up as she sees the Warden Cousland's dog laying on the end of her bed. The great beast, what the Warden had called a mabari warhound, lumbers to his feet and walks over to her, nudging her hand with his head. Melina scratches him behind the ears, a smile curving her lips, as she looks around, taking in the wooden shelves covered in tattered books and human skulls. She swallows, pulse in her throat, before looking at the woman who has spoken. She lets down her shields, searching for an emotion, but is hit with a cold wall of iron will. "Pa-Pardon me, Mi'lady, but who are you?"

The woman peers down her nose at her, dark brown hair twisted in a messy knot at the back her head. Her yellow eyes are piercing and sit etched in a elegantly curved face. Her robes are tattered and covered in inky black feathers, adding to the exotic beauty the woman possesses. "You may call me Morrigan, if you must," she replies, tone clipped as she stirs a large cauldron over the fire. "Such manners you have, considering I can smell your fear from across the room."

Melina's stomach growls in hunger as the smell of stew reaches her nose. "I'm sorry, Mi'lady Morrigan," she replies, earning a scoff from the girl.

"Just Morrigan, if you please," Morrigan replies. She ladles some of the stew into a small wooden bowl. "You are hungry, are you not? Here, eat before you go. My mother is outside and she wishes to see you."

Melina takes the bowl of stew, surprised at the burst of flavours across her tongue. The stew back in Kinloch Hold is never this tasty. "Thank you," she whispers. She finishes the bowl quickly, saving half for the dog. She purses her lips a moment, trying to remember the beasty's name. "Right, he called you Dane, didn't he? Come here, Dane, are you hungry, too?" The dog barks noisily, causing Morrigan to scowl as it wolfs down the remaining stew. "I'm sorry to bother you, Morrigan, but can you tell me what happened? I- I thought I was dead," Melina asks, confusion still a thick fog in her brain.

Morrigan nods in her direction, lip curled as she watches the dog slobber on the blanket. "You were gravelly injured, but my mother has healed your wounds and rescued you from the tower. The man who was to respond to the Warden's signal... quit the field. It was a massacre."

Melina's eyes widen in shock. "Massacre? Everyone is dead?" Images of Niall, Evelina, and Wynne flash through her mind, quickly followed by the faces of the templars who had escorted them. Cold tears spill from her eyes and she buries her head in her hands. "Maker, it can't be," she whispers, pain constricting her heart.

Morrigan sighs heavily. "There were some survivors, if that pleases you. They are outside, with my mother. Go then, and see them. Perhaps that will ease your ridiculous crying."

Melina's head shoots up at her harsh words, brow furrowed in anger. "My friends were in that battle! It's not ridiculous to mourn their loss!" She glares at the other mage, anger running hot through her veins. "How can you be so callous?"

"Because there is a time and a place for mourning. 'Tis not the time now to do so. You must gather your senses and be strong, or you will fail," Morrigan replies, rolling her eyes as she speaks.

Dane growls low in his throat beside her, clearly unhappy with the conversation. She places a hand on his head, sending calming magic his way. "I will not fail," she replies, swinging her feet off the edge of the bed. "Where are my clothes?"

"They were ruined in the battle. Here, this will do," Morrigan replies, throwing cloth that reeks of swamp water her way.

Melina holds the clothing up in horror. "This will barely cover me," she whispers, cheeks burning in embarrassment.

"It has strong enchantments, and it will be all the armour you need," Morrigan replies with a shrug of her thin shoulders. "Now hurry, lest you make your companions wait any longer."

The yellow and green cloth fits snugly over her curves, stretching tight over stomach. Her breasts are the only parts of her that fit well, being smaller than the rest of her considerable curves. She frowns as she looks down at herself, grateful that at least the stockings seem to cover her thighs and calves. "Maker preserve me," she says, crossing her heart.

She opens the door and the thick smell of musty swamp hits her in the face, sharp and strong to her nose. Mosquitoes buzz around her face, eager for her blood. She swats at them, brow knitted together in a small frown.

"You- You're alive," Alistair whispers, face slack with astonishment.

Daveth winks over at her, a ready grin in place. "Aye, good to see such a pretty lass survived this mess, right?"

She curtsies toward them, glad to see at least some of the Wardens alive. She glances around, and frowns harder when she sees Jowan standing next to an elder woman with long, white hair. Her eyes are bright yellow, and something tugs at Melina's memory, struggling to break through. She shakes her head, curls bouncing, and curtsies toward the old woman. "I hear from your daughter we have you to thank for saving our lives. Maker's blessing to you, Milady, and my deepest thanks."

The old woman laughs, a hint of madness behind the sound. "Ah, such manners. Call me Flemeth, child, most do these days."

Daveth turns slowly, eyes opened wide with fear that rolls off him in thick waves. "Flemeth? As in, the Witch of the Wilds? You're going to eat us, aren't you?"

Alistair nudges him with his shoulder. "Hush, Daveth. Are you trying to anger her? She did save our lives."

Flemeth scowls at the pair. "I am also right here, and am not so old I cannot hear you, boy." There's a deep growl to the old woman's voice, and Melina can feel dark magic radiating off her.

"Please, ma'am, I'm sure they meant no harm," Melina says, trying to assure the elder mage before something terrible happens.

Flemeth turns her bright yellow eyes back toward Melina. "Now there's a good girl, who knows how to properly give thanks when it is due. Oh don't mind me, you four should talk amongst yourselves. You have a battle to plan, do you not?"

Melina carefully brings down her shields, throwing out her senses like tiny tendrils wafting toward the two Wardens and Jowan, hoping to gain some clarity. Her whole world feels flipped upside down. Just the other day, she had been home inside Kinloch Hold. Everything was in order, everything had its place. There was a daily routine she finds comforting, and now it's all been ripped away. This was just supposed to be a brief moment where she came outside, healed the wounded soldiers, and went back home again.

And now everyone is dead. Pain, like a thousand sharp needles pricking her heart, shudders through her body. Please, Maker, please let my friends be alright, she prays silently, barely listening as Daveth and Alistair talk about how hopeless everything looks. Alistair throws his hands up in frustration, and the emotion feels hot against her skin.

"No Grey Warden has ever defeated a Blight without the armies of a half dozen nations at his back. We couldn't even find the treaties before your Joining, what in the Maker's name are we supposed to do?" Alistair asks, voice raising in a fevered pitch as he runs his hands through his short blonde hair.

Daveth frowns, stroking his chin in thought. "Brycy's refusal to venture further into the Wilds was inconvenient, but I think he figured someone else would come later."

Alistair cuts him a glare, eyes narrowed. "Well now there is no later," he says with a soft growl.

"Isn't now later?" Daveth quips back, smirking at his fellow Warden. "Why can't we search now?"

Jowan clears his throat, wringing his hands as he steps forward and Melina can feel the nervous tension rolling off him in lukewarm waves. "Uh, I know my opinion probably isn't wanted but... You can't search the Wilds now; they've been overrun with darkspawn."

"Our mage friend here is right, Daveth." Alistair sighs again, looking up toward the sky. "I'm so sorry, Duncan" he whispers, voice full of pain and grief.

Flemeth starts to cackle, the sound echoing strangely in the tiny clearing. "Treaties? I have them, and have kept them safe for just this moment."

Alistair frowns, regarding her carefully as his hand moves to his sword at his side. "Are we supposed to believe you were expecting us?" His tone is laden with incredulity as he scoffs lightly.

The mad witch's lips twist down, yellow eyes gleaming. "You are required to do nothing, least of all believe. Shut one's eyes tight or open one's eyes wide- either way, one's a fool." She chuckles again, seemingly amused at something.

"Right," Alistair replies, drawing out the word slowly and taking a few steps back. "Well, you have the treaties, then? That's, uh, a good thing."

Melina gathers her courage again, unsure she's even wanted here right now. "Thank you again," she says, offering the crazed woman a small curtsy. "You've been very helpful and kind."

A tinkling laughter sounds from behind her, and she spins around- almost losing her balance. Morrigan's arm shoots out, steadying her as she continues to laugh. "Kind? My mother has been called many things, 'tis true, but "kind" is not amongst them."

Flemeth smirks. "This is the thanks I get for feeding you and putting up with you for this long? Bah. May your child one day treat you the same."

"Feed me, she says. Without me, I swear she shall be caked in dirt and eating tree bark inside of a month!" Morrigan's voice holds a hint of amusement to it, full lips turning into a small smile as she talks with her mother.

The interaction baffles Melina as she stands there, watching them. Her memories of her own mother are faint and mostly forgotten, faded around the edges and dulled with time and distance. She remembers she had hair much the same as Melina does now, and a bright smile whenever there were visitors. She was polite, and kind, Melina believes this with all her heart. Her father is a blank spot in her head, a shadowy figure she can't bring to mind. She can't remember his smile or the colour of his eyes, the way he laughed or spoke. Guilt tears at her for not remembering more, so she holds on to what she has with a vice-like grip. But Morrigan and Flemeth... the way they talk to each other seems strange to Melina, and not at all like a mother and daughter.

She continues to listen to the chatter as the Wardens decide their plans, discussing battle tactics and allies. She exchanges a glance with Jowan, and she can tell even without feeling it that he is as worried as she is about their future.

"Alight, then it's decided! We're off to save Ferelden," Daveth exclaims, clapping his hands together. "Should be easy, right?"

Alistair rolls his eyes. "Right. Easy. Well, thank you both for rescuing us. I suppose we should be on our way."

"Wait, Ser Alistair!" Melina steps forward, biting her lip.

He flinches at the title, shaking his head. "Just Alistair, please, Mi'lady."

"Oh, of course. Alistair, might I join you once again? I- have nowhere else to go, and I'd like to help, if I can."

Alistair and Daveth exchange a glance as Melina stands perfectly still, heart in her throat. She feels almost dizzy with anticipation, praying to the Maker they'll take her with. She doesn't want to be alone.

"We could use all the help we can get," Daveth mutters, scrunching up his face as he sighs. "But you'll need to be... better at battle if you're to come along, sweetheart."

Her cheeks turn bright red at his words as she remembers Warden Cousland dying to save her. "I will, I promise," she replies, head bowed and curls falling forward to hide her face and shame.

Alistair places a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry, I'm sure you'll do fine. You've never been out of the circle, have you?" he asks, and she looks up to meet his eyes.

Slowly she shakes her head, holding back the tears that threaten to spill. "No, Ser," she whispers. He offers her a small smile, patting her on the head.

"Alright, let's go." He turns to Jowan, smile still in place. "Are you ready, as well?"

Melina scowls, but remains quiet. She knows in her heart that they can't leave Jowan behind, and she sends out a silent prayer that he truly has renounced the wicked ways of blood magic. Jowan just nods, eyes wide with shock, rubbing a hand through his thick brown hair.

Flemeth lets out a low chuckle and the sound sends shivers down Melina's spine. "I have but one more thing to offer you, Grey Wardens," she whispers, gesturing toward her daughter.

Morrigan's eyes widen. "Mother, this is not how I wanted this," she insists, hands trembling slightly.

Melina watches as the two banter back and forth, Flemeth insisting that the Grey Wardens need her or else they will fall. In the end, Morrigan agrees, despite Alistair's protests against her joining. In the end, they all go, except for Flemeth. Melina stays toward the back of their small group as they head toward a village that Morrigan had called "Lothering". Dane walks closely by her side, his presence bringing her a small measure of comfort. Daveth slows his speed until he matches her pace. He bumps her shoulder with his, a ready grin on his face. He doesn't say anything, just walks beside her as they make their way through the Wilds. He glances over at the dog, one eyebrow raised, before shaking his head, still smiling.

It isn't long before a small group of darkspawn attack, their blind hatred thick and hot in the air. Melina furrows her brow as she squares her shoulders. This is her chance to prove she won't falter, that she isn't more of a liability than a help. She casts a glyph of repulsion on the ground which knocks two of the larger monster back. Alistair charges them, slamming his shield into the tallest one. Daveth stays by her side, switching his wickedly curved daggers for a bow and arrow as he begins firing into a squat beast before it can stab Morrigan. Morrigan herself transforms into a large spider, and Melina blanches at the sight. She swallows, trying to ignore the forbidden magic taking place as Morrigan-spider prances the darkspawn in front of her. Melina casts another glyph, this one of paralysis, and holds the mage-like darkspawn in it's place while Jowan peppers it with ice pellets.

Dane howls as he, too, charges into battle. His teeth tear into the darkspawn's flesh, splatter blood across his brown muzzle. He lets out a small yip as a dagger pierces his side, but it doesn't stop the dog from ripping out the darkspawn's throat, howling in victory when hes done.

Melina stumbles toward the dog, all the monsters finally slain, and her body feels weak with sadness. The wound on Dane's body is deep as she wraps her arms around his neck, breathing in the musky scent of hound. "Don't worry, beasty, I can heal you," she whispers into his fur.

She closes her eyes, leaning back on her heels. She draws up a bit of mana from the fade, a cool tendril of magic, listening for a fade spirit. She can hear the tinkling of bells and smiles, gently coaxing the spirit closer, asking for its help rather than forcing it against its will. Gradually it lends her its strength, adding to the tendril of mana and growing the power she holds. She gathers all that energy up, holding it in her mind, and slowly pushes it into the mabari. She focuses her mind on the images of knitting the skin back together, healing the broken bones, and forcing the veins to meld back together until the beast is whole again.

When Melina opens her eyes again, the mabari greets her by licking her face, thick globs of slobber on his tongue. She falls over, landing on her butt, and a giggle bursts forth from her lips with joy. "You're welcome, Ser Dane," she says, scratching the dog behind his ears.

Alistair's lips are parted as he watches her. "Maker's Breath, but you truly are a Spirit Healer," he replies, a strange lilt to his voice. "We are perhaps more lucky than I first thought to have you along, Mi'lady."

Daveth laughs, the sound loud and boisterous as he hands his fellow Warden a small bit of cloth. "Here, to wipe the blood, and drool, from your face lover boy." He shakes his head, glancing over at Morrigan, who is still in spider form, before winking back at Melina. "I think that hound has bonded with you, sweetheart. Lucky girl, you are."

Melina cocks her head, confused. "Bonded?"

"Mmmhmm. That's what Mabari's do. My da always said they were clever enough to know how to talk, but wise enough to know not to. They're a picky breed, too, and they pick their masters from the best. That's a noble hound, it is."

Melina's eyes widen as she looks to Jowan. He offers her a small smile of encouragement before she looks away. "Thank you, Ser Dane," she whispers to the dog, burying her face in its short, musky fur once more.

* * *

Ser Cullen Rutherford feels a cold chill run down his spine. He casts his eyes frantically around the small room, where Senior Enchanters Wynne and Uldred aredescribing the battle at Ostagar, wounds still bleeding.

"It was terrible! All those soldiers, all of our mages… overwhelmed," Enchanter Wynne whispers, grey hair tumbling loose around her face.

What about Mellie? Cullen wonders, fear making his back rigid and sweat trickle down his forehead.

Uldred shakes his head. "It was the King's fault! He was foolish. Teyrn Loghain saved who he could," he argues, his bald head gleaming in the candle light.

There is something… wrong in the way Uldred's eyes glow. Is it a trick of the light? Cullen can't tell through the grief tearing at his heart. "Were there no other survivors?" he asks, trying not to reveal any emotion behind the question.

Wynne shakes her head slowly. "None that I saw, Ser Cullen," she answers gently, before turning on Uldred, her eyes sharp. "I was there, Uldred! I saw how Loghain turned his back on Cailan's troops even before they were overwhelmed." Her voice is calm and steady, like always, and once again it reminds Cullen of his grandmother.

Cullen feels his heart drop at her words. No other survivors. That means... Mellie. Sweet Mellie, with her hopeful innocence and devout faith. He closes his eyes, picturing her kneeling before the altar to pray. Her golden brown eyes set deep in her rounded face, a gentle smile on her lips as she whispers words of reverence to Andraste and their Maker. She's dead. He barely believes it, doesn't want to believe it, but Wynne wouldn't lie.

As he opens his eyes he feels a dark shift in the air, like it has suddenly turned a few degrees colder. He looks at Uldred, shock worming its way through him as blood drips from the man's wrist. "We will revolt! We will have infinite power and we will no longer bow to our Templar jailers! Loghain will see us free!" the mage cries out.

Cullen is hit with such a force of power it knocks him back, his head cracking against the stone floor. As the darkness envelops him, his thoughts drift to Mellie. He wonders if he dies here, will he see Mellie wandering the Fade? Or will she have been risen to the Maker's side for her devout faith? Surely, the Maker will have room for him, too.

* * *

The forest parts easily for Maroth and the Dalish elves now, the magic from the Elder Tree's branch helping them to glide through the trees like water. Even the wild sylvans leave them be, so long as they don't venture too close. Maroth's pulse is fluttering like mad as he grips his weapon, the rough wood bringing him comfort as they go. A thick fog has settled on the forest floor, clinging to their ankles like cobwebs in the early morning light. Exhaustion claws at his mind, regret heavy in his heart. He longs to stop, to rest, after having fought and battled all night. But to stop here, so close to the werewolf lair, would be suicide.

He throws out his arm, stopping Lanaya in her tracks. A single werewolf stands in front of them, dry blood coating its fur. Its body is hunched in on itself, and tears are leaking from its beady eyes. "You... errgh.. must turn back, my love," it says, a strange growl laced in its tone.

Maroth's eyebrows fly up as he listens. "You... speak? Of course you speak. If the bloody trees can speak, why the frig not."

Athras steps forward, brow puckered and face pinched in sorrow. "Danyla? Ma vhenan?"

Maroth's eyes widen at the words, heart skipping a beat. "Danyla? Isn't that your mate?"

The older elf ignores him, stepping closer to the were. "Ma vhenan, what have they done to you?" His voice is filled with sorrow as he collapses to his knees, hands outstretched. tears fall from his eyes as his whole body trembles.

"Shite," Maroth whispers. "Bloody friggin' shite."

The were called Danyla scuttles back, shaking her mangy head. "No! You... ergh... mustn't. The weres... ergh.. aren't what they seem. Please, my love, turn back. You must... turn back. Take the clan... errrgh Oh, it burns! Mythal, it burns! Please, kill me now! I can't... errrgh... the pain!"

Athras shakes his head, eyes wild. "No, Danyla, we can help you. Please, love, let us help you," he begs, scooting closer.

An arrow buzzes by Maroth's ear, piercing Danyla's heart. As the beast falls to the ground, she whispers something Maroth doesn't understand. "Ar lath ma, ma vhenan."

Panowen steps forward, bow in hand, as Athras howls his grief to the sky. "Ir abelas, lathallin," she says, placing a hand on his shoulder.

He shrugs her off, getting to his feet with fury in his eyes. "You murdered her," he says with a growl, clutching his own bow tight in his hand. "Do not call me lathallin today."

"The weres killed her long before my arrow touched her, Athras. She was a beast," she retorts, equally as angry.

"She was not a beast! She was my heart," he replies, collapsing to his knees once more and crawling over to her body. "Ma vhenan, ma vhenan," he sobs brokenly, clutching her bloodstained body to his chest. "Ir abelas, ma vhenan. I could not save you."

Maroth kneels down next to him, swallowing past the lump in his throat. "Come, my friend. If we stay too long, we're sittin' targets, waitin' for them weres to pick us off. Can you stand?"

Athras nods, grabbing a light purple scarf from the corpse of his dead wife. He ties it around his wrist, pressing a soft kiss against the fabric. "Fear not, friend Tabris, I will not falter in our goal. I fight now for Danyla, my bond mate. May the Dread Wolf take them all," he replies, clenching his fists.

Maroth nods, clutching the man's shoulder. "Good. Use that anger," he replies, remembering the rage he had felt when his own wife was slain. He spits on the ground, green eyes flashing. "Lets go."

Lanaya casts a small spell, sending a wave of calming energy over them all. "Lest our heads become too hot," she says, offering Maroth the barest hint of a smile.

They walk in silence, Athras staying as far from Panowen as he can. His anger keeps his body tense, and Maroth hopes he doesn't turn on his clanmate. He glances around at the trees, surprised to notice that not even the birds are chirping here. No squirrels run through the treetops, and no creatures scuttle along the forest floor. It's as if they've all fled far from the heart of the forest in fear of what lies within. Or for fear of being turned into supper, perhaps.

He pauses as he looks at the crumbling ruins of some ancient place, vines twisting around toppled towers as if they had pulled them to the ground themselves. The places reeks of rotting corpses and dust, the scent clinging to his nostrils as he gags. Lanaya hands him a bit of cloth, pointing to his face. He ties it around, helping to block out the worst of the smell though it still lingers in the air like a warning of death.

Maroth lurks on the edge of the doorway leading down, hand hovering in front of him. A roaring growl echos behind him and he spins around on his feet, losing his balance. A great werewolf, about a foot taller than the others, stands behind them; flanked by four other weres. Saliva drips from their mouths as they howl to the sky, the morning sun cresting over the treetops and lighting against their bloodstained fur.

He hears the soft stretching of a bow string. Glancing to his left, he sees Panowen with an arrow knocked and ready, sweat rolling down her forehead. Her face is pinched in fear but her hands are stead as she takes aim. "Andruil, guide my arrow," she whispers.

"The forest has not been vigilante, brothers and sisters. Errrrgh, we will drive these elves out of our lair and then we will attack the rest of the Dalish. We will have our revenge!" The wolf howls, claws lashing at the air.

Maroth places a hand on Panowen's arm, holding her from shooting. "Revenge? Ya bloody crazy or somethin'? You attacked them," Maroth says, curiosity gnawing at him.

The were growls again, stepping closer, body bent low and prepared to lunge. "You know nothing, errrrgh, elf. The Dalish attacked us long ago," he replies.

"Lies! Emma shem'nan!" Panowen lets an arrow fly, soaring through the air and piercing the wolves shoulder.

The beast howls its rage and agony, the sound echoing against the trees, before it leaps into battle. Claws rip into Maroth's side, tearing at his flesh as his blood stains the grass. A great burning flows through his body, but he pushes past it, using his spear to ward off more blows. He twists on his feet, turning his body to avoid the werewolf's claws, and lunges his upper torso toward his enemy. The tip of the spear pierces flesh when a great white wolf pounces on him, knocking him to the ground with an angry growl. The small wolf has strange green vines wrapping around its paw, but otherwise looks like a normal wolf. It barks and snaps its jaw at Maroth's face before leading the wolves in a retreat further into the ruins.

"Andraste's ass, I thought we was done for there," he whispers, wiping the sweat from his brow.

Pain, like fire in his blood, spreads through his body and he doubles over as a cry rips itself from his lips. "Maker, w'at's happenin'?"

Lanaya rests a hand on his shoulder, sending waves of magic through him, but it doesn't ease the rapid burning. "Friggin' void, it feels like I'm on fire," he says, clutching his hair in his hands.

"You have the curse in you, Tabris. If we're to keep you from turning, we have to hurry. Andruil guide our steps," Lanaya replies, cupping his cheek in her hand. "can you walk?"

He flinches as he looks into her eyes, her face so similar to Nesiara that it sends a pain even sharper than the curse through his heart. "Yeah, I can walk," he grumbles, slowly getting to his feet.

The pain doesn't ease up, despite Lanaya's magic, as he continues toward the ruin. The stairs leading down into the depths of it are dark and covered with rotting vines that smell of death and time. Athras carries a torch, lighting the way with flickering flames that does little to provide solid light. The entire place has a strange feel to it, a dark tone to the air that sends a shiver down Maroth's spine.

Werewolves attack at every corner, tearing into the small group of elves with a deep fury, matched only by the fury of the elves who have lost those they love. Panowen and Athras both use their daggers instead of their bows, their faces twisted with anger as they spill the blood of the weres. Maroth's pain slows him, making him hesitate as he drives his spear into the heart of each twisted beast. Their howls call to him, and he finds himself wanting to answer that howl, to lift his face and cry out in unison with them. He clenches his fist, struggling not to give into the curse that burns through him. Looking down at his hands, he can see the hair thickening, turning a dark grey, and becoming coarse in texture as his body shifts. Bones shift and pop beneath his arms, and he pulls down his sleeves to hide the slow change. "Maker, please, protect me," he whispers, crossing his heart with a hairy hand.

Sweat drips from his face as he hears a strange growl, deep and low that vibrates across the ground. Pebbles and debris shake beneath his feet as he exchanges a worried glance with Lanaya. "W'at in the void is that?" he asks, fear making shock waves through his body.

Lanaya shrugs her shoulders, gripping her staff so tight her knuckles are white against the grey-blue bark. He steps in front of her, walking toward the source of the sound. All the other tunnels have been explored, and there's no way down to where the werewolves live, so this is their only chance. There has to be a way down, somewhere.

"Maker's hairy nutsack, w'at in the void..." Maroth crosses his heart, fear making his body tremble as he watches a small dragon land in front of them. She spreads her great, purple wings and roars. The sound sends a cold chill down his spine.

Lanaya brings up her magic, a warm energizing wind that blows through his mind. He squares his shoulders, pain still strong in his veins, and lets out a fierce battle cry as he charges the beast.

"Andruil, guide my arrows," Athras shouts, pelting the dragon with arrows lit aflame by Lanaya's magic.

A claw smacks into Maroth, digging deep gashes into his chest that burn worse than the curse. Blood pours from the wounds as dizziness overwhelms him. He fights past it, picturing his daughter's sweet face in his mind, and gets back up. He takes his spear, wood starting to crack and splinter from repeated blows, and throws it at the dragon's throat. She cries out in pain, clawing at her own throat to try and pull out the weapon but dragon's claws aren't meant for such delicate work. Grabbing a dagger from his leg, he rushes the beast while she's distracted, tearing a great gash across her hind leg. He digs in deep, using it as leverage to climb her flank, sweat and blood pouring off his body.

The dragon whips its body around and Maroth nearly flies off, grabbing a hold of her scales and his dagger, praying to the Maker all the while. "Lanaya, distract the beast," he calls out and is grateful when he smells the stench of burning meat as Lanaya throws a fireball at its face. He climbs up the body of the dragon, using his daggers to pierce the flesh as he goes, nearly falling more than once. Soon he reaches the thick meaty part that leads up to her neck, hoping to slit the dragon's throat and finish the battle. She lets out a broken scream, somehow still able to make noise with the spear in her neck, and flaps her wings, moving up and up toward the ceiling.

"Shite," Maroth whispers as he starts to slip, using his daggers to slow his decent. Blood from the dragon's body sprays his face as he slides down her body, until there is no body left to fall down.

He looks down as he falls, the stone floor rushing toward him. His heart in his throat as he closes his eyes tight, fear a bitter taste in the back of his mouth. Suddenly, he hits a heavy force, bones cracking but not breaking. Maroth swallows before opening his eyes, one at a time, and is surprised to see the stone floor still a few feet away as he hovers in midair.

"Wat the friggin' shite?" His eyes are wild as he looks around, trying to figure out how in the void he's learned to fly.

Lanaya breaths a sigh of relief. "My magic holds you there, thank the Gods. Here, I'm going to let you down know, carefully."

Maroth holds his breath until his feet touch solid ground again. He collapses to his knees and kisses the floor, wincing in pain as he does. "Oh, sweet Andraste's tits, I never want to do that again," he says with passion. "Thank you, Lanaya."

A calm feeling settles into the back of his brain, wounds slowly healing. Blood still drips from his body, but he's at least partially healed. Lanaya frowns, inspecting the wounds on his chest. She clucks her tongue, clearly annoyed. "If only I had the power of a Spirit Healer, I could heal you fully," she whispers, her fingers soft against the jagged edges of his wound.

Maroth grabs her hand and kisses her knuckles, a small smirk playing with the edges of his lips. "Lanaya, ya saved my life. Thank you," he says, meeting her eyes.

A blush covers her cheeks and she hurriedly pulls away, straightening her robes as she goes to check on Athras and Panowen. He chuckles, wincing at the pain in his ribs as he gets to his feet. The dragon has flown away, out a small gab that leads to the forest, and with it the beast has taken his spear and both his daggers. Shite.

He limps over to the group, a grin in place. "So, it seems the friggin' dragon has taken off with my weapons," he says sheepishly.

Panowen frowns, handing over her daggers. "It was foolish to climb the beast so," she admonishes, a angry scowl etched on her face.

Maroth shrugs, nodding. "Probably. Got the beast to leave without killin' us, right? Right. So, looks like we found our entrance to the werewolf lair," he replies, pointing toward the back of the room.

* * *

Pain shocks through Cullen's body, making him double over with pain. He clenches his jaw to avoid screaming out, even as the pain sends sharp needles through his head. He can taste the blood magic in the air as his captors laugh with maniacal glee.

"Ser Cullen, shhhh, it's okay now," a soft voice whispers.

He risks a glance up and sees Mellie, her long curls tumbling around her sweet face. Her brow is furrowed in concern as she ruffles through her bag for some healing balm. "No! Demon, blood mage, let me be! I won't break!" It isn't her. It's a trick. Don't give in!

Ser Aeryn shakes his head. "No, Cullen, don't you see? It's Andraste Herself, come to save us…" he whispers, voice breaking as he stretches out his hand for her.

Cullen turns to him, trying to stop him but it's too late. Aeryn's hand touches the demon and he cries out in pain as his body twists and morphs, turning into a grotesque abomination. Another one of his fellows, lost. How many have turned or died? Five? Six? Does it even matter anymore?

He feels his heart constrict at the loss of his brothers and sisters in arms. His friends, now dead. "Ser Cullen? Why are you crying?" He hears those gentle words and recognizes the voice. The demon sounds so very much like her, sweet and kind and full of gentle innocence. He lets out a half-broken sob as he shakes his head, blood dripping from his mouth.

"You're not her…" he replies, weakly.

A hand touches his shoulder, soft but burning. "But I am real, Ser Cullen…"

He let out another sob, closing his eyes against the allure, against the sweet temptation. Anger rises in his chest, driving back the demon's touch. How dare they use the one woman he came so close to loving against him? She's dead, and they're besmirching her memory with their blasphemy.

He growls low in the back of his throat. "I will not BREAK!" he roars, eyes still closed tight.


End file.
